Someone You Know
by Pauline Dorchester
Summary: December 1942: Missing scenes from, and scenes after, 'Bleak Midwinter.' (Sam/Andrew AU. Follows "Separate Boxes.")
1. Chapter 1

There always seems to be someone dying somewhere,  
but you never expect it to be someone you know.

– Sam Stewart, in _Bleak Midwinter_

* * *

 **Disclaimer and caveat:** Sam Stewart, Christopher Foyle, Paul Milner, Andrew Foyle, Edith Ashford, Sgt. Brooke, PC Peters, and several characters mentioned in passing are all the creations of Anthony Horowitz, who also wrote some of the dialogue in the first chapter of this story. No profit is sought by my use of them.

As with all of my stories, this one will make more sense if you've read the earlier ones.

* * *

Monday 21 December 1942  
 _7.30 p.m. – Captain's Table in St Leonards raided today; end of very long investigation. Did not go along as Mr F and Milner took four constables w them. Proprietor arrested, large quantity of food seized, incl._ _whole __turkey!_ _(Uncooked.) Brookie says needed as evidence – trial might not be until next month! Will_ _spoil_ _by then; seems_ _quite __shameful,_ _esp. so close to Xmas. Rather pleased w self for having warned M & D last month not to have meal at Captain's Table, however.  
M & constables all rather out of sorts after returning to station – wonder if they are distressed at waste of food as well. Lady of certain age wearing factory overall came to see Mr F this p.m. Did not find out reason.  
Parcels arrived today from Mother & Dad and Aunt Amy & Uncle Michael. Shall wait until Xmas morning to open them. Have wrapped Andrew's Xmas gift but need to find nice piece of string or yarn – brown paper looks rather sad all by self.  
Later – Have just spent 1 hr trying again to make headway w/ __Times_ _summary of Beveridge Report. Still not much use, but apparently no fee for seeing doctor, so_ _good_ _._

* * *

Tuesday 22 December 1942  
 _11.30 a.m. – Drove Mr F to munitions factory in Old London Road. Horrible accident there yesterday a.m. – girl killed in explosion. Noticed lady from yesterday there. Wonder if she thinks someone up to no good – otherwise why get police involved? Drank cup of tea (horrid) in canteen while Mr F toured premises. Chatted w girl there called Phyllis Law. Girl who died called Grace Phillips; funeral today. Mrs Law worked w her; said they were on 'suicide squad.' More grateful than ever for Aunt Amy campaigning to have me join MTC in '39, as would_ _not_ _want to do what they are doing. Suspect even Aunt A would be horrified at idea, not to mention Andrew!  
Brought up question of turkey w Mr F on way back to station. Don't think I made any impression.  
Milner wound up about something or other, but let me have piece of green & white butcher's twine he was using to tie up paperwork – will look nice on Andrew's parcel.  
1.00 p.m. – Mr F just asked me to go to Grace Phillips' funeral & see what I can find out! Told him I'll see what I can dig up – not sure whether he got joke.  
Just heard M asking Mr F for time off this pm. Wonder if all well w Edith A, but not sure I ought to ask him. Have not really got to know E. Would be good New Year's resolution to make more of an effort.  
7.00 p.m. – Funeral as dreadful as most (though vicar really rather good). Very few people there – even GP's mother didn't come! One fellow spoke up, said GP was his best girl – made great show of being heartbroken. Couldn't help thinking that what he wanted was for everyone to __see_ _him doing this._

* * *

Thursday 23 December 1942  
 _7.45 pm – Truly_ _horrible_ _day,_ _worst_ _since secondment began. Quite possibly worst day, full stop. Mr F & I arrived at station, found it almost deserted. (Told Mr F about funeral on way to work.) Milner late to work, only Brookie there, had __dreadful_ _news to relate. Mrs Milner found dead in alley off Parade. Beaten about head with brick ca 10.00 last night._ _Horrible_ _– found her very unpleasant but certainly wouldn't have wished this on her. (Really only met her twice, I think.) Have heard only bits and pieces of story but seems she came back from Wales late Monday; M went to tea w her yesterday. (Explains why M asked for time off, also why so snappish.) Apparently she wanted to pick up old threads – M not interested, unsurprisingly. M has no alibi for time she died; at home alone. As well, turns out they were_ _not_ _divorced. (Don't know how one would go about doing this or how long it takes.)  
Got worse after M's office and house searched. M's shirt found at house w Mrs M's blood on it – M suspended. Before that, drove Mr F to Spread Eagle Hotel where she and M went for tea. Was __very_ _upset by this time; asked Mr F en route if he really thought it possible M was involved in this in any way_ _ _–_ Mr F __quite_ _flew off the handle. P_ _ _ossibly_ _did_ _overstep, and_ keep telling self this must mean __he_ _is very upset as well,_ _but am now on horns of dilemma – was invited to Mr F's house for Xmas dinner and wonder now whether wouldn't be better to beg off. Don't have gift for him in any case.  
Possibly worst bit: went by news vendor on way home tonight, Brighton __Evening __Telegram_ _has already picked up story, quite sordid, not entirely accurate. (Mrs M was haircutter,_ _not_ _nurse.)_

Sam hears the telephone ringing in the hall on the ground floor, but doesn't so much as look up.

 _Unwritten rule hereabouts is that all newspapers brought home are put in sitting room as 'community property' (Mrs Hardcastle's phrase), but am hiding this one in my room. Will probably be all over Hastings morning papers tomorrow, and if Brighton paper has already printed it Littlehampton_ _Mirror_ _won't be far behind – D & M will know about it soon._

'Sam, your chap's on the... are you quite all right?' Sam hears her billet-mate Helen Jones ask from the doorway.

'Yes – well – _no,_ not entirely. I'm sorry, Helen, it's just... been quite a trying day.'

'You look as though that were putting it mildly! Shall I tell him you're indisposed?'

'No – no, of course not, I'm coming downstairs now.'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'Hello, Andrew. Andrew?' Sam repeats when there is no reply at first. Her voice sounds hollow and weak.

'Sam – what in the world's been happening today? Are _you_ all right?' Andrew asks.

'I'm fine. There've been... some problems.'

'So I'd guess! I've just telephoned Dad – I asked him what time I ought to come 'round to your billet on Christmas Day and collect you, and I thought he was going to reach right through the line and wring my neck!'

'Oh, _golly_ – what did he say, Andrew?'

'In a nutshell, that it doesn't matter one bit what time – though he used a couple of rather choice words in addition to that! Sam, _what_ is going on?'

'Something rather awful's happened.' Sam explains the day's events as best she can, taking care to note that this _is_ police business, after all, and she isn't meant to discuss it with anyone.

'Of course not, but if it's in the papers... ' Andrew begins. 'I'm sure you're right about Dad – he's probably very upset about the whole nasty mess. _And_ he's probably been kicking himself for biting your head off! If it's of any comfort to you, Sam, everything you've told me about is circumstantial evidence,' he points out. 'Having had a row with her in public _doesn't_ automatically mean that he killed her, and the fact that he was alone when someone _did_ kill her doesn't mean that it was necessarily him.'

'What about the _shirt,_ though?'

'The shirt is... unfortunate, but it still doesn't actually prove anything. _You_ don't think Sergeant Milner did this, _do_ you?'

'No, of _course_ not! It's all very sad,' Sam goes on. 'I met Mrs Milner a couple of times in 1940 and can't say that I much cared for her, to be honest. She seemed like a rather nasty piece of work. It didn't really surprise me to learn that she'd left him. But she _certainly_ didn't deserve to be murdered! And poor Edith – she must be in a _dreadful_ state!'

'Edith? Oh, Sister Ashford!'

'Yes – she's probably _terrified!_ And I wonder if she thought that Milner was... free to marry, I suppose that one would say.' _He is now, of course._

'Sam, listen to me, please,' Andrew says firmly. 'No one can do anything about _any_ of this except to let it sort itself out. Or let _Dad_ sort it out, which I'm _sure_ he'll do. And I won't hear _any_ rubbish about you _not_ coming to Christmas dinner, Sam – that's _completely_ out of the question.'

'I've no gift for your father, you know,' Sam puts in, the wearyness coming back into her voice.

'If you _did_ it would be the very last thing he was expecting from you – no matter _what_ sort of temper he's in.'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 _9.10 – Andrew telephoned; feel a bit better after talking to him. Rather comforting in circumstances to be walking out w legal scholar. Said all evidence against M is 'circumstantial' – apparently means doesn't prove anything one way or other.  
Can't think of anything further to write but also can't think of anything else to do. Wishing for nice calm novel to read. Perhaps ought to make early night._

* * *

Friday 24 December 1942 • Christmas Eve  
 _Past midnight so might as well begin new entry.  
Have just now thought of something: M might __say_ _he was home by self because in fact E was with him_ _all __night._

* * *

All the way from Stonefield Road to police headquarters Sam turns over in her mind the thought that had occurred to her as she'd lain awake in the wee hours.

 _Milner would have a real reason to lie about that,_ she thinks. _Edith would lose her job in the blink of an eye if it got out._ Edith, Sam knows, lives at the St. Mary's Hospital Nurses' Residence, a dark, massive building that Sam has always thought would do nicely for a prison.

 _People think that nurses have loose morals, so they're forced to live in horrid places like that._ There had once been another nurses' residence in Hastings; Felicity Prothero, the midwife who boards at Mrs Hardcastle's along with Sam and the others, had lived there until the day in 1940 when – all but empty in the middle of the day, mercifully – it had taken a direct hit. It was only because of the national emergency that Felicity had been permitted to take a private billet.

 _The question, really, is whether I ought to bring this up to Mr Foyle,_ Sam thinks as she parks her bicycle. _Not after that set-to yesterday, I suppose. And Milner might not admit it even if it_ is _true, so what would be the point in asking?_

* * *

'Good morning, Brookie,' says Sam, with noticeably less cheer than usual.

'Better one than yesterday at any rate, Miss Stewart, let's 'ope. Though I'm not optimistic, to tell you the truth – look at these.'

'Oh – oh, no!' Sam hadn't gone by the newsagent's stall this morning, but Brookie has both the _Chronicle_ (POLICE DETECTIVE'S ESTRANGED WIFE KILLED IN HASTINGS – HUSBAND CHIEF SUSPECT) and the _Daily Express_ (POLICE SUSPEND DETECTIVE AFTER WIFE'S VIOLENT DEMISE). It's hard to say which one is worse.

'And just _look_ at this!' Sam exclaims after reading a bit. 'They've _both_ got the _same_ thing wrong that the _Evening Telegram_ did!'

'What's that?'

'Mrs Milner was a _hairdresser_ before they were married.'

'Why'd they say she was a nurse, then, I wonder?'

'I haven't the _slightest_ idea! _Well_ – oddly enough -'

'Oh, that's right!' Brookie interjects. 'Miss Ashford!'

'Yes.' Sam glances at her wristwatch; she has a few minutes to spare. 'Brookie – do you think that it's at _all_ possible that Milner has no alibi because on Tuesday night... ' she begins before trailing off. 'That is,' she tries again, 'do you suppose that -'

' _Good_ morning, Mr Brooke – Miss Stewart,' PC Peters says genially as he emerges from the passage. He receives only cursory greetings in return, and seems to be on the verge of asking the reason.

'Look at the time! I'd better look sharp!' Sam exclaims. 'Where _is_ that distributor cap?'

* * *

Steep Lane is only just wide enough to accommodate two vehicles side by side, and Sam has always wondered why the Local Council has never seen fit to declare that traffic will run along it in one direction or the other, not in both. Still, it makes no difference on most days: even before the end of the petrol ration few people in the street seemed to have cars.

The most sensible approach is from the south, allowing Sam to pull up in front of the house with the passenger's side next to the kerb. As Sam brings the Wolseley round the corner this morning she sees that someone is descending the four shallow steps in front of Mr Foyle's house.

Edith Ashford!

She is neatly dressed but other than that _she looks perfectly dreadful,_ Sam thinks: distraught and as though she hadn't slept much. _Well, understandably._ Sam sees something else in her face as well: _She's only just now had some sort of bad shock._

Sam brings the car to a halt by the kerb and sits as still as she can, unsure of whether she ought to greet Edith, wait for Edith to notice her or hope that she _won't_ notice her. The last of these finally happens; Sam watches as Edith takes a few steps down the footpath, comes to a stop and turns part way around as if, perhaps, to return to Mr Foyle's house. Then she apparently thinks better of the idea – _**if**_ _that's what she was going to do,_ Sam thinks – and hurries on her way.

Sam counts to thirty. Then she gets out of the car, mounts the steps and knocks at Mr Foyle's door.

* * *

'My apologies for losing my temper yesterday,' Mr Foyle announces, but it's clear that his frame of mind hasn't improved.

'Think nothing of it, sir,' Sam replies. She counts to sixty this time, then asks, 'Have you seen the papers this morning, sir?' hoping that this will sound as though she is merely commiserating, nothing more than that.

'The _Daily Express,_ ' Mr Foyle tells her curtly.

'The _Chronicle_ 's picked it up as well – and the _Evening Telegram_ in Brighton scooped _both_ of them, I'm afraid. And all _three_ printed the same error about Mrs Milner having been a nurse! Rather an _odd_ mistake for them to make under the circumstances, isn't it, sir?' she adds when there is no immediate response.

'Because, um, Milner's friend Miss Ashford is a nurse, you mean,' says Mr Foyle after another silence.

'Exactly, sir,' Sam goes on. 'You know, I really _don't_ think that _I'd_ care to be a nurse.'

Mr Foyle looks at her for the first time since he got into the car.

'People think that nurses are no better than they ought to be,' she explains. 'My aunt was an Army nurse for ten years, and she told me that there were _always_ some of the soldiers who thought that the nurses were... there for the taking.'

Mr Foyle continues to say nothing. _He looks a bit... discomfited, that's the word,_ Sam thinks, but she presses on, ignoring distractions.

'Eventually she married an officer, but when they were courting they had to be _very_ careful not to start any rumours, or my aunt would've been cashiered,' she relates. 'And not a single thing's changed since then, sir – that's why they make nurses live in those _horrid_ residence halls, and if a nurse _did_ do anything that people would think was... wrong – _some_ people, at any rate – she'd be dismissed from her job at once! So it would be _extremely_ important, I suppose, that _no one_ found out what she'd got up to.'

'Noted,' Mr Foyle says after a few seconds.

* * *

A few small bursts of activity at the police station interrupt long stretches of silence.

Mr Foyle goes into his office and shuts the door.

Sam tries to read the remaining stories in the Hastings newspapers but is unable to concentrate.

Brookie answers the front desk telephone. Sam hears his end of a conversation; it has a stop-and-start quality that suggests that he is talking to someone with a great deal to say and a great determination to say it. After more than a minute of this he transfers the call to Mr Foyle.

Sam switches to _The Times._ Reading it now reminds her of the early weeks of the war when she was unable to take in anything other than war news, but this morning she finds it no better going than the local press.

After a time she finds herself wandering about the station like a butterfly looking for a place to alight.

* * *

The conversation hadn't started well and has gone downhill with breathtaking speed. Brief as it's been, it seems to Sam to have lasted an eternity.

'By the way, for what it's worth... I do have the key,' PC Peters notes in a way that can only be described as insinuating.

'What for?'

'The evidence room. Just thought you'd like to know,' Peters adds. His smile, always more of a smirk in any case, has transformed into a leer.

Sam turns away, feeling a bit soiled, takes a few steps towards the front of the station and turns left into Brookie's office, if that's the proper word for something that's separated from the passage only by a half-wall. Even so, he has a desk. _It would be awfully nice,_ Sam thinks, _to have a desk._

'Everything all right, Miss Stewart?' Brookie enquires.

'Yes, thank you, Brookie,' Sam replies. It's a reflex, merely an automatic response. 'No, not really,' she goes on. 'It really is a bleak midwinter, isn't it?'

'Well, we've just 'ad some news that might cheer you up. There was a witness.'

'What?'

'When Mrs Milner was killed. There was someone there, and 'e's just been on the blower.'

Sam, who has sat down at Brookie's desk, leaps to her feet.

'Where _is_ he?' she asks excitedly.

'At the A.F.S. post.'

'I'll get the car _right_ away!'

'No need to rush,' Brookie says. 'Mr Foyle said 'e needed to make an urgent telephone call 'imself.'

'My goodness – to _whom?_ What on Earth _about?'_ _What could_ possibly _be more urgent,_ Sam wonders, _than clearing Milner's good name?_

'Dunno. Erm, Miss Stewart.' Brookie changes the subject. 'Was that PC Peters who was botherin' you just now? I'll 'ave another word with 'im. 'E's sort of the ring-leader, you know.'

'Yes – that is, yes, it _was_ Constable Peters, but no, he wasn't bothering me. He wasn't... forcing his attentions on me, if _that's_ what you mean, Brookie,' Sam goes on when the sergeant looks unconvinced. 'Ring-leader of what?' she adds.

Brookie now looks distinctly uncomfortable.

'They like gossiping – that's all,' he tells her.

'Gossiping about _what?'_ A dismaying idea occurs to her. 'You don't mean that they _do_ think Milner killed his wife?' she asks in a loud whisper.

'Oh! No, I don't think _anyone_ 'ere believes _that,_ Miss Stewart.'

'What, then?'

'I shouldn't 'ave mentioned this,' Brookie says at last.

'You _did,_ though,' Sam points out firmly. 'Brookie, if there's something that I ought to know, then _please_ tell me what it is.'

'It's just... You've asked about 'avin' a desk in the constables' room.'

'I certainly have! _Everyone_ seems to be against the idea!'

'There's _reasons_ for that, Miss Stewart. The boys, they like to pretend... ' Brookie trails off. He looks miserable.

Sam's eyes widen.

A farm in the Downs, eighteen months ago – no, twenty. Three Land Army girls, one of them a rough customer, a girl called Joan, from Brookie's part of London.

' _Why don't the old man drive himself? . . . Are you his fancy woman? Is that 'ow it works?'_

'Does Mr Foyle know about this?' she asks, so quietly that Brookie has lean forward slightly to be sure of hearing her.

'Not if me and Mr Milner've been able to keep 'im from finding out,' he replies firmly. 'Y'know, Miss Stewart, it isn't _you._ It's really just – some blokes – well, a _lot_ – a woman puts on a uniform and they think she's a... ' He falls silent again and then adds, 'I'd wager it was just the same in the last war.'

Sam nods.

'Brookie – whether or _not_ Mr Foyle knows about this, I think that it'll be best if he _doesn't_ know that you've told _me_ about it,' she says. _To say nothing of Andrew,_ she adds silently.

'No argument from me,' Brookie agrees. 'This _entire_ conversation – it never 'appened! Was there something you was going to ask me when you came in this morning, Miss Stewart?' he asks.

'There _was,_ yes... but it might be better to leave it be. It seems _awfully_ easy to start rumours – even without intending to.'

'Ah – _there_ you are, Sam.' Mr Foyle stands in the doorway. 'I need to go to -'

'The A.F.S. station, sir?'

'Yes. Know where that is?'

'Shepherd Street, in St Leonards on Sea, sir – opposite the lime works. I'll get the car.'

* * *

The A.F.S. have taken up residence not only in the fire station itself but over the road in the lime works' yard as well. Sam parks the Wolseley there; she is unsurprised when Mr Foyle instructs her to remain with it, and only mildly so when she realises that she feels no real disappointment. Still, it can't hurt to stand _by_ the car and look about a bit rather than sit _in_ it.

A cheery fellow of about Uncle Aubrey's age wishes Sam a happy Christmas and offers her a newspaper to read. It's two days old, but no matter: Sam hasn't seen it, and the lead article is about Grace Phillips, complete with a photograph.

* * *

A FEW HOURS LATER

'Mrs Wilson was _very_ surprised when the turkey arrived in a police vehicle – and _impressed,_ I think, even if the car _was_ only one of the ten-forties, and not the fourteen-sixty,' Sam relates. 'Impressed with the _turkey_ as well as with _that,_ of course.'

'That's good,' Foyle says mildly.

'I'll telephone Mr Johnson on Monday morning, sir, first thing, and ask him when he thinks he can have the car ready,' Sam goes on.

'Thank you.'

'It'll probably be best not to expect too much on that score – although it _is_ a police vehicle and really _ought_ to take priority. But he'll be rather short-staffed for the time being.'

The sheer aplomb, not to say _sang-froid,_ that this remark suggests shakes Foyle out of the pall of fatigue that has settled over him this afternoon. It isn't yet half past three, but Sam is driving him home in the same small marked police car she used to deliver the turkey. She herself has been, if anything, increasingly lively as the day has worn on, but there are circles under her eyes.

'You've had quite a day, Sam,' he begins.

'The entire department has had quite a _week,_ if I may say so, sir,' Sam replies seriously, and then adds, more tentatively, 'All's well that ends well, though – isn't it?'

'Certainly,' Foyle agrees, unable to keep from smiling at this. 'That said... ' He trails off, then begins again. 'Well, for one thing, you're going to have to rearrange your schedule for tomorrow. What time are they expecting you?'

'They're going to sit down at noon, Mrs Wilson said.'

'Why don't we say that you'll join us for tea and then stay to supper? If I send Andrew to call for you at half past three, will that be all right?'

'Thank you, sir – I'd like that _very_ much,' Sam answers him. They've arrived at the house. 'Was there something else, sir?'

Foyle hesitates, _for no real reason,_ he admits silently. _Still haven't lost the habit of avoiding this subject._ Then he answers her.

'No need for Andrew to know about your visit to Johnson's Garage today, don't you think, Sam? I know that you never discuss police matters outside the department,' he goes on before Sam can reply _– something I have little choice but to believe,_ he adds to himself – 'but it seems this case has been in the papers since Wednesday afternoon. He's likely to know _something_ about it already.'

'Yes, well... ' Sam begins. 'To be honest, sir, he telephoned me last night – _after_ he'd spoken with _you._ He said that you'd been... a bit short-tempered with him.'

'Mm. Yes.'

'And he wondered whether I knew what was troubling you. You know, sir, he _does_ worry about you a good deal,' she adds.

'Not half so much as he worries about _you,_ Sam.'

* * *

 **Author's notes:**  
My heartfelt thanks, as always, to those who have provided help and support: BellaDuveen79, inquietstrength, mercurygray, oldshrewsburian, OxfordKivrin, rosalindfan, and strangespacerock.

The _Report of the Inter-Departmental Committee on Social Insurance and Allied Services_ (better known as the Beveridge Report), laying out the foundations of the modern British welfare state, was published on December 1st, 1942. Two editions were available – a 300-page unabridged version and a shorter official summary, combined sales of which reached 100,000 copies by the end of the year – and _The Times_ and other newspapers published summaries of their own. (See Juliet Gardiner, _Wartime: Britain 1939-1945,_ p. 582, and Valerie Holcomb, _Print for Victory: Book Publishing in England 1939-1945,_ p. 194.)

The small marked police car that plays a crucial role in "All Clear" has been identified by observers at the Internet Movie Car Database as a Wolseley 10/40 Series II from 1937 or 1938. I am imagining that the Hastings Police have a small fleet of these and that Sam will be driving one of them until the large car – a Wolseley 14/60 from around the same time, I gather – can be fixed.


	2. Chapter 2

On her way to her billet Sam makes a detour to visit the newsagent and buys a copy of the _Evening Telegram._ She wants to quietly leave this in the hall and go up to her room, but when she arrives she finds her landlady, Mrs Hardcastle, fussing with something at the hall table, Helen and Penelope in the doorway to the sitting room, and Felicity descending the stairs. All of them stop what they're doing as she enters the house, looking at her with a slightly unnerving combination of expectancy and alarm. They must all have seen the morning papers.

'All's well that ends well – please note the headline,' Sam announces, pulling the _Evening Telegram_ from under her arm and pointing at the lead story:

 **HASTINGS DETECTIVE CLEARED  
IN ESTRANGED WIFE'S MURDER  
**—  
 _LOCAL AUTO MECHANIC ARRESTED  
IN THAT, TWO OTHER DEATHS  
_—  
CONSTABLE HELD FOR  
EVIDENCE TAMPERING

'Which reminds me – would anyone here happen to have such a thing as a concordance to Shakespeare?'

* * *

It is only in her room, sitting at the little table that serves as both desk and vanity, that Sam realises how tired she is. More than tired: she feels as though something inside her were wound like a coil ready to spring.

She wonders whether she ought to try to rouse herself for Holy Communion tonight or try instead to get a good night's sleep and then go to church in the morning.

 _If I'm going to go to church tonight then I really ought to fast until then,_ she thinks, _which if I'm to be honest is rather a horrible thought._

 _I could go to the early service tomorrow, but then I'd have to get up so_ very _early!_

 _Or there's the festival service – Matins and Holy Communion at one blow! Of course, that won't be over until half past eleven, which means that I'll have to fast after supper straight through breakfast tomorrow. But that's what I_ ought _to do, really,_ she decides. _It'll make me even_ more _grateful for the feast I'm to have afterwards. And I could sleep a bit later that way._

Turning about in her chair, she sees the parcels from her parents and from Aunt Amy and Uncle Michael sitting atop the chest of drawers.

 _If I have a lie-in_ and _go to morning service I won't have time to open those,_ she thinks, and then decides gleefully, _I ought to do it_ now, _really._

Her parents' parcel is hard and square. Sam removes the brown paper, being careful not to tear it so that it can be turned inside out and reused, and discovers a letter wrapped around a hinged box covered with faded silk faille. Inside it is a brooch made from an oval-shaped piece of mother-of-pearl, set in gold filigree and carved with the profile of a woman wearing crested helmet: the ancient Greek goddess Athena.

'Golly!' Sam whispers. Then she opens the letter:

 _St Stephen's Vicarage, Lyminster  
The Feast of Our Lord's Nativity, 1942_

 _Dear Samantha,  
Your mother joins me in offering our prayers and very best wishes this Christmas. We shall miss you as always, but we are grateful for your recovery from illness, for the knowledge that you have found a suitable place in the war effort and for the confidence that you have shown in us, your loving parents, by introducing us to your young man, to whom we hope that you will remember us.  
Some have opined that Christmas gifts ought to be given only to children this year – but as __you_ _are_ _our_ _child we decided not to take the dictum too literally! Your mother feels that you have enough woolens to last for quite some time if you care for them properly, so we were both especially pleased when she came across the enclosed item at the parish jumble. It seems appropriate given the nature of your war service. Your mother, whose instincts in such matters I would hesitate to question, believes that this must have belonged to a member of the Blanchard family and that it was probably made five or six decades ago. We both hope that you will enjoy it.  
Your loving  
Dad  
and Mother _

The package from her aunt and uncle has a nondescript shape, and gives a bit when Sam squeezes it gently. It as well comes with a letter enclosed.

 _Braithfield Farm, Red Rice, Andover, Hants  
(No more marked paper here, alas!)  
Christmas 1942_

 _My dear Sam,  
Uncle Michael and I wish you the happiest of Christmases and the very best for the New Year. The country has reason at last for some optimism, of the sort that Mr Churchill expressed in his speech last month, as I hope that you will agree. With that in mind, and remembering also that you have had quite a time of it this year, we have decided to ignore the wartime spirit of humbug that has become so widespread this Christmas and send you a gift.  
The rule that rationed goods may not be bestowed in this way, about which you have probably been reading in the papers recently, threatened to put paid to that plan; but our local food officer has assured us that as we grew the enclosed __in __our __own __orchards_ _and dried them_ _for __our __own __use_ _and are bestowing them upon_ _a __member __of __our __own __family_ _they are exempt from that horrid regulation. We shall hope that she is correct. (Our food officer is Marjorie Tazewell, as it happens, and she asked to be remembered to you, as have Valerie and the children, of course! In any event, I am reliably informed that Mr Churchill and Lord Woolton are taking action to abolish that rule.)  
Life here continues much as it has for the past few years. We have a third Land Girl and would benefit from a fourth, as Southdene Farm is untenanted now and we have had to take over the working of that land as well as the Home Farm. We had much too brief a visit from your Uncle Desmond earlier this month while he was on leave; to his great embarrassment he was asked to say a few words at St Margaret's here. Army life seems to suit him down to the ground and I think that the change of scene from Manchester has done him a world of good.  
I shall close now; your uncle will add a few words of his own. Please remember me to Flt Lt Foyle and to your colleagues – and do let us hear from you!  
Your affectionate aunt,  
Amy Braithwaite_

. . . . .

 _Sam, my dear girl,  
That was quite a fright you gave us during the summer, although the good news that we've had from you since then does a great deal to make up for it – even though you've ignored my advice about avoiding the company of officers! In any event, you have my very best wishes for Christmas and the New Year.  
Another recent piece of good news is that my Laura has recently been promoted to the rank of Squadron Officer – and although she naturally had to write about this in veiled terms, I got the impression that she expects to be transferred fairly soon, possibly in a southerly direction, so perhaps we shall be seeing a bit more of her in future.  
Your foolish old uncle,  
Michael Braithwaite _

There are two smaller packets wrapped in waxed paper inside the larger parcel. Leaning forward, Sam cautiously unwraps each one a bit and looks into it: both contain dried fruits.

'Golly!' she says again, then sits back in her chair, thinking. She pulls her desk drawer open, takes out her scissors and cuts away part of the brown outer wrapping paper. She withdraws half of the contents of one packet and wraps it up in the paper she has just cut.

Then she opens the top drawer of her dresser and pulls out her much fretted-over Christmas gift for Andrew, which she has wrapped as carefully as she knows how. She lets her hand rest atop it for a second or two as though blessing it, then carefully unties the piece of green-and-white butcher's twine that Milner let her take, cuts it in half and wraps one piece around her new package. Rummaging in her desk drawer once again, she finds some Sellotape. She makes a bow from the remaining piece of twine and fixes it on Andrew's package with a bit of the tape.

 _Not perfect, but it'll have to do,_ Sam thinks. She puts both packages into her haversack.

Then – _best to be on the safe side,_ she thinks – she slips in Aunt Amy's letter as well.

* * *

Mrs Hardcastle, Sam has to admit, is quite a good cook. This week she has managed to get hold of a joint, boned and stuffed with oats and barley to eke it out a bit. Dishes of Brussels sprouts and the inescapable potatoes, a bottle of fizzy Portuguese wine and a Christmas cake or something that will have to do in its place have been put out. To Sam's surprise, someone has laid the table in the tiny dining room.

'I thought, seeing that it's Christmas Eve, and since we've finally had some _good_ news about the war these past few weeks, it might be nice if we all took our supper together for once,' Mrs Hardcastle explains.

'Thank you, Mrs Hardcastle,' says Sam, although suddenly the bunched-up feeling inside her becomes slightly more pronounced. 'Is there anything that I can do?'

'No, nothing at all, Miss Stewart! We're ready to sit down.'

After grace has been said – by Helen, who would not have been Sam's choice for the task, as she goes on at quite some length – and the food has been served out, Mrs Hardcastle chooses a conversational gambit.

'It must be unsettling, Miss Stewart, for your organisation to be the focus of so much attention in the newspapers.'

'If you mean the Police Department,' Sam replies carefully, 'I can assure you that it wasn't nearly so alarming as wondering whether our Detective Chief Superintendent would be killed.'

'Ah! Well, yes – I mean to say, _no,_ I suppose it wasn't.'

'But if you mean the M.T.C., _we_ could do with a bit _more_ publicity of the right sort at times,' Sam goes on, 'although in both cases it _would_ be nice if the press could get their facts sorted before going to print.'

'The _Evening Telegram_ did correct their mistake from yesterday,' Felicity points out, 'about the dead woman having been a nurse.'

'Which dead woman do you mean, Miss Prothero?' Mrs Hardcastle asks.

'Mrs Milner,' Penny explains.

'Ah, yes, indeed, Miss Robinson! Miss Stewart, you must be very relieved _indeed_ to know that your sergeant isn't a murderer.'

Sam sets her knife and fork down. Penny and Felicity exchange a worried glance.

'To begin with, Mrs Hardcastle,' Sam says in a small, firm voice, 'I can _assure_ you that _no one_ at the Hastings Police ever so much as _imagined_ that Detective Sergeant Milner did _anything_ wrong.'

 _Although Edith did, apparently – but she told Milner that she'd have stood by him no matter_ what _he'd done._

'Moreover,' Sam goes on, and to her alarm she hears her voice tightening yet more and rising as well, 'he isn't _my_ sergeant, any more than Mr Foyle is my -'

She abruptly falls silent and stares at her plate.

'I think that what Sam means, Mrs Hardcastle,' Helen says quietly, 'is that people nowadays seem to imagine that a woman in any sort of uniform must be... _easy_ – for lack of a better way to put it. I've had some experience with that myself.'

'As have I,' Penny adds.

'Me as well, and I'm not even in the Forces,' Felicity puts in, adding quickly, 'I've got some _very_ happy news -'

But Mrs Hardcastle cuts her off.

'I'm well aware of that!' she bursts out shrilly. 'I served in the _last_ war, I'd have you know – in the Women's Royal Naval Service like you, Miss Jones – and I had _more_ than my share of men sniffing about my skirts! Why do you think I won't have... gentlemen in the house? It's to protect to you girls from gossip – _that's_ why!'

'I'm sorry, Mrs Hardcastle – I oughtn't to blow things out of proportion. You're right, the past few days have been very trying,' Sam offers after a silence.

'Mrs Hardcastle, I'd no _idea_ you were in the Wrens,' says Helen.

'I was a Deputy Principal Cook. Miss Prothero, were you about to say something?'

' _Yes,_ I have some _news,'_ Felicity announces, smiling broadly and clearly relieved to be able to change the subject. 'Sam's friend Mrs Anne Woods – you met her as well, Helen and Penny, at that party for Glenda in September -'

'Oh!' Sam exclaims.

'She had her baby today – a girl,' Felicity goes on. 'Just before noon. Seven pounds nine ounces. Nearly a _fortnight_ after we were expecting to hear from her. We do see that with first births, but I was starting to grow just a _bit_ concerned. I needn't have, though – fairly short labour, mother and child are doing fine, father a tad unsteady on his pins in the first aftermath, but I'm not _too_ worried about him,' she adds.

* * *

It's not yet sunrise. The first transports from the airbase to Hastings won't leave until daybreak, but there's already a longish queue which Andrew joins at the back.

Three lorries pull up.

'No coaches for the likes of us, eh, sir?' the flight sergeant standing in front of him remarks over his shoulder. The queue advances by fits and starts. The first lorry fills up with personnel and departs, then the second. The sergeant is the last to climb into the third before the Transport Officer pronounces it filled to capacity.

'Don't worry, sir – back before you know it!' the driver calls out to Andrew.

'Want the paper, sir?' the sergeant asks him, holding it up. It's the _Evening Telegram,_ and Andrew's first impulse is to refuse: what use does he have for yesterday's news from Brighton? Then he sees the words HASTINGS DETECTIVE in the upper right-hand corner.

'Yes, thanks!'

Andrew reads the lead article as he waits, wondering towards the end of it whether he ought to leave the queue and try telephoning his father before going home, just possibly to an empty house.

 _Don't be an idiot – you'd have been contacted by this time if... if anything had happened,_ he thinks. And indeed, it seems that all is well.

The lorries return; Andrew is the first in. On the way to Hastings he rereads the piece. It occurs to him that there is one bit of the investigation that the _Telegram_ 's correspondent hasn't explained. _How,_ he wonders, _did Dad know where to look for Osborne?_

* * *

His father emerges from the kitchen with his shirtsleeves rolled up, wishes his son a happy Christmas and apologises for having snapped at him on Wednesday night.

'Hardly matters, Dad – happy Christmas to you as well.' Andrew holds up the newspaper. 'Are you, um, are you all right?'

'Much better now that I've got the press out of my hair – though _that's_ probably temporary,' Dad remarks. 'But I'm fine, Andrew. Wasn't the first time I've been in that sort of tight spot, after all.'

'I don't think I find that very comforting, to be honest. Well, all right,' Andrew goes on, setting the subject aside. 'When shall I go to fetch Sam?'

'Ah. There's been a change in the day's schedule. Sam's had a windfall.' Foyle tells his son about the black-market turkey. The story makes Andrew laugh, chasing away the anxious shadow that his father can see in his eyes. 'So she'll be joining us for tea and supper,' he explains.

Having hung his cap and greatcoat in the hall and deposited his tunic and kit bag in his room, Andrew joins his father in the kitchen. He has another question to ask but forgets it temporarily when he sees the array of objects sitting on the table.

There are bunches of turnips and carrots along with a few things in tins, a couple of small bottles, a bag of flour and various small pieces of cooking equipment. At one end lie two of his mother's old cookery books, one open to a chapter on game, the other to a section on root vegetables. In the center...

'Is that what I think it is?' Andrew queries.

'Yes, if you think it's a rabbit.'

'Where in the world did you get a _rabbit,_ Dad?'

'I have a new neighbor,' his father says, nodding towards number 33 next door. 'Well, since the middle of last year. Professor Townsend. Last week-end he went off to visit friends in the countryside. They gave him three rabbits, it seems, and he gave me this one.'

'Well, forgive me, but isn't it a bit _small_ to feed three people? Considering it isn't on ration, I mean?'

'Probably, yes. So it won't be the _only_ thing on offer.'

Andrew nods.

'Can I do anything to help?' he offers.

'Yes, you can stir these together,' his father says, handing him a filled bowl and a mixing spoon.

'Dad, there's something I don't understand,' Andrew remarks after a bit.

'Good heavens, what might _that_ be?'

'How did you know where to go looking for this Osborne character?'

Andrew sees his father's posture stiffen slightly.

'Just good luck,' Dad says.

* * *

Sam has slept for nearly ten hours and feels much better until she remembers that she won't eat for several more. She instructs herself sternly not to think of this. At least she is no longer so tired; but she can still feel something tight and hollow inside her. That's hunger, she decides. _Going to church will distract me from that._

She takes a few sips of water – her father would frown at this, she suspects, but she's learned by now what she can do and what she can't – washes up and then puts on her only new clothing of the autumn: a suit in a tiny brown-and-black houndstooth check and a green blouse, along with her good shoes and a fawn-coloured hat with a little spray of felt chrysanthemums pinned to the front. Then she opens the box containing her parents' gift. She wonders for a few seconds whether it's quite the thing for Christmas Day, but pins it to her lapel even so.

A weak winter sun is shining through the clouds. Sam leans out of the window a bit to test the air and finds it mild. She closes the window, goes downstairs and leaves the house.

* * *

Evacuation and the call-up have reduced Hastings' population to a fraction of its former size; even so, St. Edward's feels comfortably full. Sam finds a spot at the center of an otherwise empty pew. She sees people she knows in the nave, but she doesn't feel eager just now for company.

 _No one,_ she thinks, _to whom I'll have to explain anything._

Sam has lived in this parish ever since she arrived in Hastings, even when she was still billeted at Mrs Harrison's, and has sometimes wondered what her father would think of it – or what he _does_ think, this being the same diocese, after all. He would not, she suspects, approve of the building itself, a busy Victorian Gothic confection of the sort that always strikes Sam as trying to be something that it isn't. And if people in those days had wanted to proclaim that the Church of England was truly catholic and apostolic, then why not reach even farther back and copy Norman churches, or even Saxon ones?

' _Behold the great Creator makes himself a house of clay . . . '_ The choir – five women in their 30s or 40s and three men who are far too old for the Forces, and in one case possibly too hard of hearing – begin to sing at the back of the church as the chancel party comes into the nave.

'Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people,' Mr Newell, the vicar, begins. 'For unto you is born in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

'Let us kneel in silence, and remember God's presence with us now.

'Let us humbly confess our sins to Almighty God.'

From the third Sunday after Easter until the fourteenth Sunday after Trinity – after she'd had that terrible letter from Andrew and until they were reconciled – Sam had not darkened the door of St Edward's or any other church. Once, before she was discharged from St Mary's – before they'd told her what it was she'd had – she had knelt in the chapel there, but her mind was a blank. For all of her determination to be cheerful when Mr Foyle or anyone else came to visit she'd been unable to summon any urge to give thanks, and all through the spring and summer had felt herself more sinned against than sinning.

She is so busy thinking about this now, head bowed, that she barely notices the words of the General Confession and the Absolution; but during the Venite she gives thanks that Mr Foyle and Milner are both safe, and for Edith's loyalty to Milner _even unto death,_ she thinks, _although of course that must mean that I was wrong about... well..._

She gives thanks that Andrew is, for the moment at least, both in Hastings and out of harm's way, for the birth of Anne and Greville's baby daughter and that the local magistrate was willing to listen to reason; and as the Venite gives way to the Invitatory and the Psalm she feels as though a knot inside herself were beginning to come untied, and at last starts to enjoy the service rather than feeling that it is a duty, even a happy one, that she must discharge.

The Collect for Peace brings her up short.

'Defend us Thy humble servants in all assaults of our enemies; that we, surely trusting in Thy defence, may not fear the power of any adversaries. Almighty and everlasting God, who hast safely brought us to the beginning of this day; defend us in the same with Thy mighty power; and grant that this day we fall into no sin, neither run into any kind of danger.'

 _Assaults. Danger._

 _I might have been killed yesterday._

'We commend to Thy gracious keeping, O Lord, all Thy servants departed this life in Thy faith and fear, beseeching Thee to grant them everlasting light and peace.'

Sam prays for souls of Grace Phillips, whom she had not known and _who was apparently no better than she ought to have been,_ and of Jane Milner, whom she had known only slightly and disliked, _perhaps unjustly,_ Sam thinks, _and surely neither of them deserved to die, especially not in the ways that they did;_ and Eric Clayton, _who might have been up to no good but who,_ it now occurs to Sam, _died in my place._

Her eyes begin to sting a bit.

'And we most humbly beseech Thee of Thy goodness, O Lord, to comfort and succour all them, who in this transitory life are in trouble, . . .'

With great tenderness Sam prays for Andrew, whom she knows is unlikely to be both in Hastings and out of harm's way for very much longer: _that if he must be sent away he not be sent far, and that You keep him from feeling as unmoored as he did last time; and that if he must be sent back into action that You please keep him from harm._

'. . . sorrow, . . .'

Sam prays for Mr Foyle, _who must miss his wife even more at Christmas than he does the rest of the year,_ and for her own family, all of them, missing each other and worrying about the ones in the Forces.

'. . . need, . . .'

She prays for everyone whom the war has displaced, and for the evacuee children in Hastings – _not the right thing to call them, I know, but what_ is _the right word?_

'. . . sickness, . . .'

Sam prays for Harry Osborne who, whatever crimes he may have committed, _is obviously utterly out of his mind._

'. . . or any other adversity.'

 _I might have been killed yesterday._

'We beseech Thee also to lead all nations in the way of righteousness and peace; and so to direct all kings and rulers.'

 _How odd to say that prayer when it's_ other _rulers'_ un _righteousness is what has led to the_ lack _of peace,_ Sam thinks irritably.

But the prayer book itself has an answer to this:

'O Almighty Lord, who art a most strong tower to all them that put their trust in Thee, be now and evermore our defence. Grant us victory if it be Thy will; look in pity upon the wounded and the prisoners; cheer the anxious; comfort the bereaved; succour the dying; have mercy on the fallen; and hasten the time when war shall cease in all the world; through Jesus Christ our Lord.'

'Amen,' Sam whispers.

By now she is almost painfully hungry.

The little choir begins its anthem:

'In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan . . . '

 _That's just what I said yesterday, isn't it? It_ isn't _, really – look at how much there is to give thanks for._

 _And I_ wasn't _killed yesterday. I wasn't even_ _ **hurt.**_

' . . . earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone . . . ' Her father loves this hymn dearly, and Sam smiles to herself as she recalls her mother sighing, _'Must_ we have the same thing year _in,_ year _out,_ Iain?'

Her stomach growls.

* * *

In the narthex after the service Sam stops for a moment to return the greetings of a small cluster of airmen and WAAFs whom Andrew has introduced to her. Then she nearly flies out the door and up the street towards the Fishermen's Guild Hall. As she rounds the corner of the building she comes upon two young boys playing at sword fighting. The smaller one looks at her gleefully and raises his imaginary weapon so that it points at her. For an instant she forgets to breathe.

'Hello – happy Christmas! My name's Sam,' she announces.

'That's a boy's name,' the smaller boy says, before she can go on.

'It's short for Samantha. What are _you_ two called?'

'I'm Alfie – that's my brother Bill,' says the bigger boy.

'Very pleased to meet you both, I'm sure,' Sam replies. 'I'm going to Christmas dinner in there,' she goes on, nodding towards the building. 'Are you going as well?'

'Yes, miss!'

'Well, I think that we ought to go in then, don't you? It's nearly time to eat!' Sam holds out a hand to each of them and together the three of them go up the walk.

* * *

 **Author's notes:  
** I have been unable to pinpoint the legislation that made it illegal to make gifts of rationed foodstuffs; however, my impression is that such a law was in effect from the beginning of food rationing in January 1940 but that enforcement did not begin in earnest until the second half of 1942. By November of that year it was attracting unfavorable attention in the press and in Parliament. The chief criticisms were that the rule meant that food that was not needed within a household would go to waste (since it was illegal for one household to give rationed food to another), and that it was absurd to make it legal to give someone a cake, for example, but illegal to give them the ingredients of that cake. On December 2nd William Mabane, the Parliamentary Secretary to the Food Ministry, defended the policy in the House of Commons, but by this time Winston Churchill had asked Lord Woolton, his Food Minister, to discontinue enforcement. (See Ina Zweiniger-Bargielowska, _Austerity in Britain: Rationing, Controls, and Consumption, 1939-1955,_ p. 174 ff.) On December 3rd at least one national newspaper, the _Daily Mail,_ announced that giving food away _was_ permitted as long as it had been legally obtained in the first place; selling it, on the other hand, was not.

Like fresh fish, rabbit meat was not rationed but could be difficult to obtain.

In his book _Hastings at War 1939-1945,_ Nathan Dylan Goodwin states that Hastings' "pre-war population of over 65,000 dropped to just 21,000" by September 1940. The primary reason for this was evacuation, and the reference to "local evacuee children" in "Bleak Midwinter" seems to be either artistic license or a puzzling historical lapse.

While perusing newspaper listings of 1942 Christmas services (and being surprised at how few newspapers at the time carried such information), I noticed several mentions of a "Festival Service" consisting of Morning Prayer followed immediately by Holy Communion, so I decided to send Sam to such a service, although the resources available to me have not made it clear how the two liturgies were to be combined without becoming excessively repetitive. At that point, artistic license entered the picture: readers with an interest in this subject may have noticed that all of the liturgical quotations are taken from the new additions to the proposed 1928 revision of the Book of Common Prayer, although my understanding is that none of that material was authorized for public use until 1966, and also that I have also performed a cut-and-paste operation on the intercessory prayers and have introduced an anthem where there would not normally be one. St. Edward's Church is imaginary, although Sam's perceptions of its architecture were inspired by a real Hastings church, Holy Trinity.


	3. Chapter 3

Andrew looks hopefully at one lintel, then at another. Sam smothers a laugh.

'No mistletoe, I'm afraid,' she whispers. 'Not at _all_ Mrs Hardcastle's sort of thing.'

'We'll have to pretend, then,' Andrew whispers back. He proceeds to act on the idea, much to the delight of them both, although the bulky object wrapped in brown paper that he has just put into her hands gets in the way a bit.

'What's this?' Sam asks, hefting it.

'It's your Christmas gift, Sam – open it and see.'

Sam hesitates.

'We'll have to be very quiet,' she tells Andrew. 'Mrs Hardcastle's upstairs – having a nap, I think.'

The parcel turns out to contain a book:

 **Everyman's New Standard Dictionary  
of the English Language  
**••••••••••••••••  
Prepared by More Than Three Hundred and Eighty  
Specialists and Other Scholars

There's no dust jacket, and faint traces of plaster are stuck to the edges of the binding, but with those exceptions it looks and feels quite new. The flyleaf bears the signature of a past owner in the top corner and an inscription in Andrew's hand.

 _Christmas 1942  
To my brilliant Sam,  
As requested, and gladly given – although if what I've seen is anything to go by you already know what it all means.  
All my love,  
Andrew_

'Oh – _golly!_ Thank you, Andrew, thank you so _very_ much!' Sam exclaims. 'Where did you find it?'

'It wasn't so easy,' Andrew admits. 'Howes, in Trinity Street, have a complete set of the OED available, but... well, for one thing, that takes up a _great_ deal of space! I ended up sending away to a shop in London. I'm afraid,' he goes on, 'that it probably belonged to someone who's been bombed out, or even killed.'

Sam nods solemnly.

'I shall try to make the best use of this that I possibly can,' she promises. Then she smiles, puts a finger to her lips and then removes it, kisses Andrew, and takes her new dictionary upstairs.

* * *

'Do you want to go over the West Hill, or around it?' Andrew asks.

'Let's go over it – we can take in the view.'

'I wish that you could have seen what I saw when I arrived at home this morning, Sam,' Andrew tells her. 'The kitchen table was _covered_ with things waiting to be cooked. A couple of Mum's old cookery books were out – I can't remember Dad _ever_ looking at a recipe before now! A neighbor of his went to the country and brought back some rabbits and gave him one, so we're going to have that for supper. I suppose it's not precisely _turkey_ – how _was_ the turkey, by the way?'

'Oh, golly, Andrew, it was _wonderful!_ There were nearly forty people there, so the portions had to be rather small, but it was _quite_ lovely all the same! And I don't think that I've eaten rabbit since I left Lyminster – it'll be _splendid!'_

'I hope so – this _is_ Dad's cooking, you know.'

'Was your mother a good cook?' Sam ventures.

' _I_ always thought so, yes,' Andrew replies. 'Which is really quite interesting when you think about it – given that she wasn't brought up to _do_ her own cooking, I mean. At any rate, the rabbit's actually rather small, so Dad's making something else as well, though I don't know what it is – he said it would be a surprise. And – well, you'll see. I _did_ try to help, chopping things up and so forth. I'm not _utterly_ useless in the kitchen, you know.'

'I'm delighted to hear it!'

'I dreamed about you last night, Sam,' Andrew says as they begin to climb the hill. 'I dreamed I was in quarters, reading or something, and you came in and sat down -'

Sam laughs gently at this idea.

'No, really! I often have dreams like that,' Andrew goes on. 'You turn up in places where I don't suppose I'd _ever_ see you when I'm awake! It never seems at all strange, either.'

'I _have_ been to R.A.F. Hastings,' Sam reminds him. 'More than once, actually.'

'Well – yes, that's true, but you've always been ferrying Dad or me, and you've _certainly_ never been in quarters! At any rate,' Andrew goes on, 'in my dream you sat down and said something like, "Everything's going to be all right – I've just heard".'

'Oh, how _peculiar!_ What do you suppose I meant?'

'Excellent question! I've absolutely no idea – it might have been anything at all, really.'

'Well, no matter,' Sam goes on, and to her own surprise adds, _'Where_ did I sit?'

'On the foot of the bed, actually,' Andrew replies, hesitating a bit before doing so.

'What happened then?'

'Then a couple of chaps who'd been enjoying Christmas Eve... a bit _too_ much, perhaps, walked by in the passage and I woke up.' He can well imagine what might have happened had he remained asleep; his cheeks begin to grow warm and he and wonders whether he's blushing.

'I had a _very_ odd dream last night,' Sam tells him as they reach the top of the hill and stop there. 'I dreamed that I was lying in my bed – just as I actually _was,_ of course – and something lifted me out of it, higher and higher. Just that, nothing more.'

'Were you frightened?'

' _No,_ not at _all._ It was quite... _lovely,_ really.'

'Some _thing_ or some _one,_ Sam?' Andrew asks after considering this.

'Some _one,'_ Sam affirms after another moment.

The pale winter sun has just begun sinking below the horizon to the west. When Andrew turns to look at Sam in the fading light he sees that she is now gazing resolutely ahead. He reaches across the little space between them, takes her hand, kisses her cheek and nuzzles her temple. It seems dangerous, suddenly, to do anything more than that.

'We ought to be on our way, Sam,' he says softly. 'The blackout will begin soon.'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'You won't find any mistletoe at the house, either, I'm afraid,' Andrew tells Sam. They have reached the lower end of Steep Lane. 'Mum used to get some each year, but... ' He trails off, then adds, 'No Christmas tree, either – not since the war began. Has Dad been getting many cards at work?'

'Yes, he's had several.'

'Has he put all of them up behind his desk, where he can't see them?'

'He _has_ – I've _noticed_ that, actually! He did the same thing last year and the year before that,' Sam recalls. 'The _odd_ thing is that anyone who comes into his office will see them at _once.'_

'Exactly! They'll see that they're _there,_ and I think Dad always hopes that somehow that'll allow him to get out of... I don't know, Christmas chit-chat or something of that sort. The fact is that Christmas isn't Dad's strongest suit, not since Mum died. I felt sorry for him when I saw that he was spending the whole day cooking, but I wonder, actually, if he wasn't glad simply to have something to _do.'_

'He's probably _very_ glad that you're here to be cooked _for,_ _and_ that you're not flying.'

'And that you're back with me and I'm back with you,' Andrew points out. 'He's glad about that as well.'

* * *

Sam sniffs appreciatively. Rabbit, unmistakably; a vegetable smell; almond essence; a very faint whiff of something burnt; and one more scent, a savoury which she can't name at once.

Over tea Sam tells Andrew and his father about the children's Christmas party: crackers, carols, games of blind man's buff, oranges and lemons and musical chairs.

'And the dinner was _lovely,_ and the children enjoyed it so _very_ much! You know, though,' she adds more seriously, thinking of the urchins in the street, 'I wonder if they're... being supervised properly.'

'Who _are_ these children, anyway?' Andrew asks. 'I thought the evacuees here had been – well, re-evacuated.'

'They were,' Mr Foyle replies. 'We all keep calling them evacuees, but they aren't. They're all living with relations, who are being stretched pretty thin, I think – they're certainly not getting any allowance for upkeep.'

'Waifs and strays would be a better way to put it, really,' Sam agrees. 'I found out that a few of them _are_ in school, after a manner of speaking – a maths master from one of the schools here that closed has been holding lessons at his house, apparently. I suppose that it's nothing _but_ maths, but at least it's _something.'_

'What's making those bulges in your haversack, Sam?' Andrew asks.

 _'Ohh..._ I have a gift for each of you,' Sam explains, pulling out the two parcels and handing the oddly-shaped one to Mr Foyle and the other, a flat rectangle, to Andrew.

'Thank you, Sam!' Mr Foyle exclaims. He looks genuinely surprised. 'You really oughtn't to have troubled, though, not for me.'

'No trouble at _all,_ sir – happy Christmas.'

'You go first, Dad,' Andrew says.

'All right. Is this, um, the butcher's twine that we've been using at the station, Sam?'

'Yes, sir. Milner let me take a piece. He said he didn't need it anymore.'

'Hm.'

Foyle opens the packet and finds himself looking at a dozen dried pear halves. A large quantity of dried fruits had been found in the larder at The Captain's Table; they weren't included in the magistrate's release – no danger that they'll spoil quickly – and are still in the evidence room.

'Sam – where did -' Foyle looks up to see that Sam has reached into her haversack once more and pulled out a sheet of letter paper.

'My aunt and uncle in Hampshire sent me those, sir – _quite_ a bit more than that, actually,' she explains, and proceeds to read part of a letter from her aunt that deals with the legality of the gift.

' _Well,'_ Foyle says; and then, after a pause, 'Thank you, Sam. This is very kind of you – I'll enjoy these. Please thank your aunt and uncle for me as well.'

'I shall, sir.'

'What's Andrew got?'

Andrew begins carefully removing the wrapping paper from his parcel. Sam holds her breath until she remembers not to.

She had agonised over finding a Christmas gift for Andrew. She's far too out of practise now at knitting to have even considered making a jumper for him. A scarf might have been possible, but wool has been scarce and dear even in colours for the forces, and knitting needles are even harder to come by. _A pen,_ she'd thought – _but he's_ got _a pen._ _A book, perhaps_ – _but_ what _book?_

'Oh, Sam, this is marvelous! _Thank you!_ ' Andrew gasps.

The answer had finally presented itself at a jumble sale – _of all places,_ she'd thought at the time, _although clearly I'm not the only one to have found a Christmas gift at a jumble this year,_ she thinks now, fingering her new brooch.

'Did you make this?' He holds a long, narrow piece of fabric, precisely the slate blue of a Royal Air Force uniform. It isn't wool, though, but fine silk folded unto itself and made up into a flying scarf. There's no fringe, but near one end someone has embroidered the R.A.F. badge in outline with very fine stitches, a line drawing done in white thread.

'No – I found it at a jumble in Winchelsea Beach,' Sam demurs.

'What on Earth were you doing _there?'_ Andrew asks.

'My fault,' says his father. 'Possible violation of the Imports, Exports and Customs Powers Act. Inquiry took up the entire afternoon.'

'The only thing _I_ did was to mend it,' Sam goes on. 'The seam was ripped in a couple of places.'

Sam is fairly good at mending, but had never tried to sew up silk before this. It proved challenging and she wonders if a casual eye can see the new stitching. No matter: Andrew is no longer looking at the scarf, but at her. His gaze untangles the last tiny knot still inside of her.

* * *

'Can I be of any help, sir?'

'Well, um, you don't happen to know what to do with _those,_ do you, Sam?' Mr Foyle asks, nodding towards the contents of a shallow bowl. 'One book tells me to cook them in fat, which I can't spare, and another says they should be tossed out.'

'Turnip tops? Oh, of _course_ they ought to be eaten! What one does, you see, is to chop them up – but _wash_ them first,' Sam adds, putting a hand on the pile of leaves, which still feel faintly sandy.

'Thought I _did_ do that.'

'Sometimes they need a second go, sir. _There_ we are,' Sam goes on. 'Have you got a pot with a lid that fits _quite_ tightly? Oh, yes – thank you, that's perfect! Now, we'll let those cook for a quarter of an hour.'

'Good – thank you,' Mr Foyle says, sounding a bit nonplussed.

Andrew has gone back into the sitting room to gather up the last remnants of tea. Foyle looks at Sam carefully for a few seconds before he speaks again.

'Are you all right, Sam?' he asks quietly. 'After yesterday, I mean?'

'I'm fine, sir,' Sam answers him evenly, adding, 'Thank you for asking. I probably _wasn't_ when I went back to my billet yesterday – my landlady asked about the case and I... got a bit wound up. But a good night's sleep and the service this morning and a good meal all helped – and another good meal will help even more! I'm _perfectly_ all right, sir, honestly.'

'Glad to hear it,' Mr Foyle replies, although Sam thinks that he doesn't sound entirely convinced.

'Is there anything else that I can do, sir? I don't want to be in the way, of course.'

'Why don't you help Andrew set the table for supper, Sam? I've one more thing to see to at the cooker.'

As Sam begins to leave the room she notices the scent that she hadn't been able to put a name to becoming more pronounced, and recognises it: tinned fish. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Mr Foyle bring a butter dish from the larder and deposit its meagre contents into a pan atop the cooker.

'Out of curiosity, sir,' she begins to ask before trailing off.

'Needed to eke out the meal a bit,' Mr Foyle explains. 'Got the idea from you.'

'From _me,_ sir?'

'Yes.' A bowl of something is resting on the dresser next to the cooker; Mr Foyle begins to stir its contents. 'Sardine pancakes,' he explains. 'One for each of us.'

* * *

Over supper – it's all quite splendid in Sam's opinion, including both the sardine pancakes and the pudding, a carrot flan, the crust a bit burnt on the bottom but quite edible for all that – Sam tells Andrew and Mr Foyle about Anne and Greville's baby. Afterwards she tells them the story of her Christmas three years previously: the first Christmas of the war, her first away from Lyminster and the last before rationing began.

Andrew has heard this story before, or parts of it at least, but settles contentedly next to her on the sofa and listens: a long working day on the 23rd of December – a Saturday, no less – spent driving a Mr Witherington of the Ministry of Production the length and breadth of Sussex while he inspected seemingly every factory in the county, and then on to London.

'I was meant to deliver him to his Ministry, in Westminster,' Sam recalls. 'He was _quite_ a long time at the last place, though – it was nearly four o'clock by the time he was ready to leave, and the sun was going down, and he told me to drive him home instead. I asked him if that wouldn't get him into trouble at work. I suppose that I was still a bit... _green_ at the time, sir,' she notes, seeing that Mr Foyle is trying not to smile. ' _He_ thought it was funny, as well. At any rate, he said that they were unlikely to keep the office open so long after the blackout on a Saturday, especially so soon before Christmas, but that he would telephone when he arrived at home, just to be certain.

'For some reason I had imagined that a civil servant would live in the Home Counties – but the address that he gave me was in Westminster! It had _never_ occurred to me that anyone would actually _live_ there! It was a mansion block, and when we got there he told me that I should come inside and wait in the lobby. I did that, and after a while the lift door opened and a woman got out and said that she was _Mrs_ Witherington. She told me that they were going out for the evening – she was quite _exquisitely_ dressed – or she'd have asked me to come upstairs to supper. As it was, she gave me a sandwich to eat – _awfully_ good roast beef with tomato and pickle and horseradish sauce – and some Jaffa cakes as well. She was worried that I was going to have to drive all the way back to Hastings that night.'

'Had you _planned_ to do that, Sam?' Mr Foyle queries.

'Mrs Bradley wanted me to,' Sam explains, 'but headquarters in London objected, and arranged for me to stay at the MTC dormitory and drive back the next morning. My parents _wouldn't_ have been best pleased if they'd known that I was staying overnight in London, although I suppose they wouldn't have liked the thought of me all alone on the open road during the blackout either,' she continues. 'But London was really quite calm then, you know – rather on edge, I suppose, but calm.'

'The phoney war.'

'Precisely, sir. In any event, when I got to the dormitory there was a message waiting for me – from Mrs Witherington! She had telephoned from the nightclub where they'd gone and said that if I was still in town on Christmas day I was welcome to come to dinner at midday! And that's _exactly_ what happened,' Sam continues. 'The next morning, first thing, Commander Mrs Buckley – she's the London Area Commandant – told me that they were short of vehicles and needed the one that I had driven up the day before.'

'Christmas Eve, and they needed an extra car?'

'Someone from the Supply Ministry needing to be driven to Birmingham,' Sam explains with a shrug. 'I offered to drive, but I'd put in so much time and mileage on the day before that I was refused. They gave me a railway voucher – I went to Victoria Station and tried to book a railway ticket back to Hastings, but it was no good at _all._ I couldn't book for _any_ time before half past four in the afternoon on Christmas Day. So I telephoned Mrs Witherington and accepted her invitation, and then I telephoned the dormitory and told them I'd need a place for the night – and asked _them_ to contact my landlady in Hastings and tell her that I was delayed, as it _was_ rather the MTC's fault.'

'Wasn't this when the MTC were trying to recruit drivers who could, um, more or less hand over their own cars?' Andrew asks.

'Yes, that's right!' Sam exclaims. 'And if you _did_ provide a car, you weren't always given that one to drive, I remember, and one's own car might be driven by somebody else, and might end up _hundreds_ of miles away. Some of the girls _weren't_ terribly happy about _that!'_

'What sort of car _was_ it, then, Sam?' Foyle queries. His knowledge of the subject is cursory at best; he knows that the police use Wolseleys because they are reliable and safe.

'That was _another_ fantastic thing, sir! It was an MG Magnette two-seater painted in two shades of green. I'd never driven such a small car before. That _did_ take a bit of getting used to!'

'An MG!' Andrew interjects. 'Honestly, Sam, I can't picture you driving anything other than a huge black saloon car.'

'Oh, I drove all _sorts_ of cars before I went to work for the police, Andrew. It's true, though – I _am_ used to the big Wolseley now. I didn't do _too_ badly in the ten-forty yesterday, though, did I, sir?' Sam goes on. 'Just braked a bit too hard once or twice, probably. So we ought to be quite all right, really, until we can get the regular car back from the garage.'

The rest of Sam's story – lunch in a hotel restaurant (the first time she'd ever eaten in a restaurant by herself, a milestone so exciting that she no longer recalls _what_ she ate, much less the name of the hotel); the Christmas Eve service at Westminster Abbey; the Witheringtons' palatial flat and the glorious meal they served – passes over Andrew like an echo. He feels as though he has suddenly and unexpectedly found the last clue to a double-crostic ( _Why a double-crostic? When have I ever tried to work a double-crostic?_ ) and discovered that the quotation is _LOCAL_ _MECHANIC ARRESTED IN THAT, TWO OTHER DEATHS_ _._

For a moment he feels faintly sick.

* * *

 **Author's notes:**  
An excellent account of the wartime struggles of the British publishing and bookselling industries, and an explanation of why Andrew would have needed to give Sam a used, rather than new, dictionary, can be found in Valerie Holman's _Print for Victory: Book Publishing in England 1939-1945_.

Early recruitment notices for the Mechanised Transport Corps indicate a preference for "owner-drivers," but my description of the possible disposition of members' cars is speculative.

"I was assigned to the Ministry of Aircraft Production," Sam tells Foyle (and us) in "The German Woman," but the fact of the matter is that that ministry wasn't formally established until May 14th, 1940 – that is, at roughly the time when Sam goes to work for Foyle!


	4. Chapter 4

'What will you do on Boxing Day?' Sam asks as she and Andrew emerge, hand in hand, from Swan Terrace into the High Street.

'Safety demonstration in the morning, low-altitude flying exercise during the afternoon. Boxing Day's been cancelled as far as Training Command are concerned,' Andrew adds dryly. 'What will _you_ do, Sam?'

'Pay a couple of calls – go to see Anne and Greville and the baby, and there's to be an open house at the A.T.S. officers' quarters – and then go home and write thank-you letters.'

'To your aunt and uncle?'

'And also to my parents – they gave me this,' Sam explains, pointing at her brooch with her free hand.

'It's pretty,' Andrew tells her, a bit mechanically.

'Thank you. It was rather a _surprise,_ really, coming from them – and I _don't_ know whether it's _quite_ the thing for the Feast of Our Lord's Nativity!'

Andrew looks at the brooch more carefully.

'The goddess of wisdom and heroic endeavour! But Sam, that's _perfect_ for you!'

'Well, probably _not –_ thank you in any case – but regardless, I feel _much_ better now about having found your scarf at a jumble sale, because _this_ came from the St. Stephen's jumble sale in Lyminster!'

'Well, there you are, you see. The war's making us do all sorts of things we would never have so much as _thought_ about before. And thank you again for the scarf, Sam – it's absolutely beautiful and I've never seen one like it! The only thing is – I didn't want to say this in front of Dad, but if I ever find myself in the drink again, the salt water will ruin it.'

'I _did_ think of that,' Sam admits. 'I also wondered... how it came to _be_ at that jumble sale. It might have belonged to some pilot who... ' She trails off and then begins again. 'But he obviously wasn't wearing it _then,_ and he must have had _better_ luck when he _did_ wear it, so I thought perhaps it will be lucky for you as well, if and when you start flying again.'

'More a question of _when_ than _if,'_ Andrew remarks. 'It's been nearly two years now that I've been in Training Command.'

'Yes,' Sam answers quietly. 'I know.'

'I _do_ expect to be on leave the third week in February, and it won't happen before that. We could visit Lyminster then, if you like.'

'Yes – yes, we ought to.'

'Sam, I'd _like_ to go! I want to see the things that _you_ saw when you were a child.'

'I suppose that there are _some_ things to see,' Sam allows.

'There's _something_ everywhere _,_ isn't there?'

'Even in Debden?'

' _Now_ who's answering one question with another? Point taken, though – perhaps _not_ in Debden. But probably everywhere else.'

'My parents,' Sam recalls, 'did ask to be remembered to you.'

'Please give them my best regards as well.'

'I shall.'

'And your and aunt and uncle... and please congratulate Greville and Anne for me!'

'Oh, of course!'

'Being reassigned is my best chance of staying in Hastings, Sam,' Andrew begins after Sam falls silent. 'My best chance of remaining in Britain, actually – most pilots are being trained overseas now. It's safer that way. That's our choice these days,' he goes on. 'Danger at home, or safety on the other side of the world.'

The wave of alarm, bordering on panic, that Andrew had felt as he imagined what must have happened to Sam yesterday – _**might** have happened,_ _**nearly**_ _happened,_ he reminds himself – has receded, but comes rolling back as he speaks.

'That's true – yes, I know,' Sam answers. 'And I know that you _want_ to... be operational again – and the _last_ thing that _I_ want is for you to be unhappy! It's just that... ' Sam falls silent once again. 'Do you remember,' she goes on at last, 'when we began walking out and I said that I'd always be sitting at home now, listening to the wireless and worrying?'

'And I said that you shouldn't.'

'Yes, but I rather ignored that – and I really _can't_ say that I _enjoyed_ that part of it! Perhaps I'll be a bit... sturdier this time. I know that you don't _want_ to be worried about,' she adds fondly.

'Perhaps _I'm_ not the one who _needs_ worrying about, Sam!' Andrew blurts out.

'I'm _sorry?'_ Sam comes to a halt and Andrew with her. The moon has only just begun to wane and the sky is largely clear, letting them see each other's faces with ease.

'Oh,' she says quietly. 'You read yesterday's _Evening Telegram,_ I take it.'

'Not until this morning, but yes, I _did_ read it – _and_ I noticed that there was... a _gap_ in the story. It didn't explain how Dad _found_ Osborne. Dad managed to get 'round answering my question when I asked him about it, and now I know why! He used you as a stalking horse, is that it?' Andrew demands.

'No!'

'Then what _did_ happen?'

'Your father needed to go back to the munitions plant – where there was that explosion on Monday. The car broke down while I was driving him there – the radiator split,' Sam explains. 'He walked the rest of the way and I looked for a garage. Johnson's was the first that I found, and Harry Osborne was working on something there when I drove up. It was a coincidence, Andrew, that's _all!_ He said that the garage was full, and _I_ said that I was driving a police vehicle and so _it_ took priority. He asked whether I was a police officer and I said yes – which was _stupid..._ as _well_ as not being true.'

'How did you know who he was, though?'

'I recognised him from Grace Phillips' funeral.'

'Why were _you_ at her funeral?' Andrew asks, bewildered. 'Did you know her?'

'No, not at all.' Sam looks away from him. 'Your father _asked_ me to go.'

'Sam!'

'Someone from the factory came to the station on Monday and reported her death – wondering if it were sabotage or something, I suppose, not merely an accident. And it _was_ sabotage, in a manner of speaking. We went to the factory but I think that your father wasn't able to learn all that much. That's why he asked me to attend the burial.'

'Did Osborne recognise you as well?'

'No, I don't believe that he _did,_ actually.'

'And so... you simply turned about, left the car there, went back to the station and told Dad that – no, that _isn't_ what happened, is it?'

Sam is gazing at the ground.

'No,' she admits.

'Sam – what _did_ happen? _Please_ tell me.' She doesn't answer at once, which only makes things worse. 'Did you – did you see him kill the other man, what was his name, Clayton?'

'Yes, Eric Clayton – his accomplice. I _heard_ it happen more than I _saw_ it – I was... leaving just then. I _oughtn't_ to have let on that I recognised Osborne,' Sam admits. 'He wanted to know _why_ I was at the funeral, which I couldn't think how to explain – and that made him suspicious, of course! I said that I'd take the car elsewhere since he couldn't seem to spare the time, but he got between me and the way out.'

Andrew flinches.

'Clayton came in just then, from the rear – _he_ was at the funeral as well – and asked what was going on,' Sam continues. 'Osborne said that I'd been following him and asking questions. Clayton tried to calm him down, but it was no good.'

'And then?'

'I was standing next to a tub of hot coals, and there was a shovel stuck into it, so I grabbed that and threw some coals at him. Then I made for the door and ran all of the way back to the station.' Sam speaks matter-of-factly, but there is a note of defiance – of glee, almost – in her voice.

 _That's my girl,_ Andrew thinks, and tries to smile, but his heart is still in his mouth.

'Wasn't it frightening, though?' he asks.

'I didn't have _time_ to be afraid, really.'

'I'd have been scared witless!'

'I can't _quite_ imagine _that,_ Andrew!'

'Someone trying to kill you always comes down to the same experience, I suspect, no matter the circumstances,' Andrew remarks.

'I don't know that he wanted to _kill_ me.'

'And _I_ don't know that he _didn't!_ You _are_ all right, though, Sam – _are_ you?'

'Yes, of _course_ I am. He never even _touched_ me.'

'Well – Sam? _Sam.'_

She has let out a noisy, shuddering breath. Andrew reaches for her, placing one hand on her cheek and the other at the small of her back.

'But if I hadn't let on that I recognised him,' she continues in a high, strained voice, 'and if I hadn't been _daft_ enough to say that I was with the police, Clayton would probably still be alive. He died in my place, really.'

'That's _more_ than a bit debatable, Sam. Osborne might well have been planning to kill him all along, after the robbery.'

'It was only frightening _afterwards_ – after I realised... that it _might_ have been much worse than it _was._ Which is _ridiculous,_ isn't it? Why be afraid of something that didn't happen?'

'If _I_ can be terrified by what's _nearly_ happened to me, then there's no reason why _you_ oughtn't to be frightened after that sort of narrow escape!' Andrew exclaims.

'Where does that leave worrying about someone else, then – if the other person doesn't _want_ to be worried about?' Sam asks after a few seconds' silence.

'That's a good question, I suppose.'

Sam is looking at him now, gravely and urgently.

'Andrew, listen to me, please – I _won't_ be wrapped in cotton wool. I spent the first _twenty years_ of my life that way, and it took the war to change things, and you're _not_ to try changing them back.' She speaks very calmly, but in a voice that will brook absolutely no argument.

'No,' Andrew answers after a few seconds. 'Of course not. I'm _not_ trying to do that.'

 _ **Am**_ _I?_

 _God, yes, of course I am. But . . ._

'I'm _terribly_ proud of you, Samantha, not _least_ for keeping your head and... getting yourself out of danger,' he continues. And so he is.

 _But –_ _but what?_

'Your father thanked me for my help, you know, even though it _was_ an accident,' Sam remarks.

'I should _bl-_ I should _hope_ so!'

'And I can't be so _very_ shaken up, can I, or wouldn't I have had bad dreams last night? I _didn't,'_ she goes on, sounding slightly defiant again. Then she adds, more softly, 'I dreamed – well, I told you what I dreamed.'

Andrew nods.

'There's some comfort in that, Sam,' he remarks.

'In the dream I had, or because I told you about it?' Sam asks, smiling a bit now.

'Both, really – but the first in particular, I think.'

The light has faded a bit; the moon is just visible through the clouds. Andrew and Sam walk in silence for several minutes, hand in hand once again, until they are half of the way up Stonefield Road.

'Here we are then,' he says, adding, 'safe and sound,' before he can stop himself.

'Happy Christmas, Andrew, and thank you _so_ much – thank you for the dictionary, and thank you for this evening, and... _thank you.'_ Sam's voice catches suddenly, and she stops for an instant before continuing a bit hoarsely, 'I love you.'

'Oh, _God,_ Samantha, if you only knew -'

'I _do_ know.'

Even now Sam gasps in surprise as their lips meet, as though this were something entirely new and unknown to her.

 _Will she_ always _be like that?_ Andrew wonders.

He thinks first of how dearly he wants to know the answer to that question, and then that there is really only one way of finding out and that he wants that as well, and then of how easy it would be to settle the matter once and for all, at this very moment.

 _No,_ he tells himself. _That's just what she'd, in fact, say if I asked her now. She'd only think that I've got hold of some half-baked notion of protecting her. And she'd be partly right._

Sam breaks off their kiss and bends her head over Andrew's shoulder, turning to the side so that her forehead rests against his neck. He gasps in his turn, holds her a bit more tightly and closes his eyes for a few seconds.

'Let's come to an agreement, shall we, Sam? I'll _never_ _again_ tell you not to worry about me if you'll let _me_ worry about _you._ Not extravagantly, I promise. Or not if I can help it, at least.'

'Yes, all right,' Sam replies, raising her head and smiling. 'For the duration, at least.'

'Agreed. We can renegotiate after the war is over.'

* * *

'I _did_ try to warn her – better for all concerned if you didn't know.'

'I really don't think she _meant_ to tell me, Dad. Just a slip of the tongue.'

'That's true.' _Sam and her accidents,_ Foyle thinks, _good_ _ **and**_ _bad._

'Anything else,' Andrew goes on, 'that I ought not to know?'

'Well – anthrax last summer. You're _certainly_ not meant to know about _that,_ and yet you _do,'_ his father replies, still sounding faintly annoyed after all these months.

Andrew feels his cheeks growing slightly warm. They have not so much as mentioned this subject since September.

'But if you mean things that she didn't tell you _herself,'_ his father continues, 'well, what _do_ you know?'

'I know how things ended up at the Bexhill Fuel depot – or might have done if that layabout had known his business.'

'Sam told you about it?'

'No. I read about it in the paper and put two and two together.' _We weren't yet a couple then,_ Andrew reminds himself, _even if I was hard pressed sometimes to keep from wondering about her._ 'She told me about the crash when... someone sabotaged the car – and about disarming that idiot sapper who was waving a Luger about in a pub.'

'Know what happened afterwards?'

'Yes, Dad, I do. Could've happened to anyone at all.'

'Perhaps. Do you know that she offered to go to gaol in the fellow's place if it came to that? She was the one who finally fired the gun, was her thinking.'

'No – no, she never told me _that!_ Good God!'

'Well, all academic in the end – he got off with a caution. Sergeant Rivers' son-in-law, as he is now.'

'The thing is,' Andrew says after a silence, 'the worst part of this – the part that really frightens me – is that I think Sam _enjoys_ this sort of thing. Talking down some sozzled pillock with a firearm in his hand. Stumbling across the very same homicidal maniac _you've_ been trying to locate for days. _All_ of it. She likes being able to think, "Look at how close I was to harm's way, and I survived intact." I blame her parents, really,' he goes on. 'Twenty years more or less wrapped up in cellophane! She probably thought that even prison would be a chance for an adventure.'

'I don't know that you're wrong,' his father replies slowly. 'About her enjoying the brushes with danger, at least. Not that easy, though, for me to tell her _not_ to do things – not when I'm not about, at least. _If_ that's what you're asking me to do.'

'Oh – please don't think that I'm _blaming_ you, Dad! I'm not.'

'Glad to hear it.'

'It's the way she is, that's all. But _that's_ what frightens me. It _must_ be part of what I love about her, and it could get her killed.'

'Possibly. Though there's, um, quite a _bit_ these days that could get a person killed. And I suspect that she didn't get out of the garage yesterday purely by luck.'

'No, absolutely _not._ She told me about it – _very_ quick thinking.'

'The bomb at the Bexhill depot failing to go off – _that_ was luck. But look, Andrew – aren't you thinking about Sam in the same way you accuse her parents of doing?'

'Point taken,' Andrew concedes. 'Was there ever anything about Mum that frightened you?' he continues.

'Your mother was a very determined woman,' Dad says after a few seconds. 'Married down.'

' _Hardly!'_

'Wwelll, that's as may be. The point is that she had to get around a _great_ deal of family opposition – your Uncle Charles was really her only advocate at first – as _well_ as learning how to keep house. And she wanted to continue painting. We agreed about that. I always felt rather guilty, though. If I'd been able to support her a bit more comfortably – pay for some household staff... '

He trails off.

'Probably didn't help matters when _I_ showed up,' Andrew interjects wryly.

'You were _always_ a _wanted_ child, Andrew. But – when you were about ten, she had, um, seven or eight pictures, as I recall, in a group exhibition in Brighton.'

'I remember that. I _was_ ten. Was it _that_ many, though?'

'I think so. What I remember very _clearly,_ though, is that _all_ of them were sold. And I wondered after that – every once in a _while,_ you understand – how she could keep from finding _that_ part of her life so much more interesting than _this_ -' Dad makes a small, encompassing gesture that takes in Hastings, Steep Lane, the house, perhaps even the two of them. 'I suppose I wondered sometimes how she would choose, if it ever reached the point that she – that she felt compelled to do so.'

'Do you think Mum ever thought about that?'

'Not really. No. I was never doing anything more than making a mountain out of a molehill. But there's your answer.'

Andrew nods but says nothing.

'Sam will have to testify at Osborne's trial, I expect,' his father remarks.

'Well, _that's_ hardly cause for alarm. Not as though he were part of some sort of criminal gang. What about the constable?'

'At Peters' trial? Mm, possibly. Seems he may have – well. Sergeant Brooke _suspects_ that Peters _may_ have made, um, something _resembling_ an immoral proposition to Sam yesterday morning.'

'Oh. Really.'

'In exchange for access to the evidence room, apparently. We were keeping the turkey in there. She didn't say anything to you about that?' Dad asks.

'About Peters? No, nothing at all.'

'Then either she doesn't want you to _know_ – in which case _I_ oughtn't to have said anything – _or_ she's shrugged it off entirely. I suspect it's the second.'

'Or Sergeant Brooke was wrong.'

'Mm. Yes, quite possible. Mustn't believe everything you hear, after all.'

Foyle is silent for a time, gazing into the near distance.

Half a day spent in Crowhurst on business while Sam was convalescing after the anthrax. Casual inquiries as to her whereabouts from a few of his colleagues. A quiet remark from one of them to another, overheard by chance.

He'd been so angry that he'd had to make himself scarce for a few minutes, lest he do something profoundly unprofessional.

'Dad?' he hears Andrew ask. 'Anything in particular that _I_ ought not to believe?'

'All sorts of things,' he replies.

* * *

 **Author's note:**  
Information about the overseas training of R.A.F. pilots comes from the R.A.F. Museum's website.


	5. Chapter 5

_In c/o Mrs Hardcastle, 25 Stonefield Rd, Hastings, E. Sussex  
The Feast of St Stephen, 1942_

 _Dear Mother and Dad,_

 _Thank you so very much for the beautiful brooch, and for your very kind letter! I've never before seen mother-of-pearl carved in that way. I wore it all day yesterday, even if a Greek goddess didn't seem quite the right thing for Christmas Day, and Andrew said that a head of Athena is quite the perfect thing for me!_

 _I hope that you had a wonderful Christmas. Mine was lovely and busy, but before I tell you about it I need to put you in the picture about something that occurred here this week. The_ _Evening __Telegram_ _featured the story on Wednesday, made it sound rather more sensational than was strictly necessary and also made an error, which they corrected on Thursday but it occurred to me that the_ _Mirror_ _might have carried the story on Thursday morning, and if so you'll likely have seen that and of course there've been no newspapers since then, so I ought to explain what actually happened._

 _I'm sure that you remember Detective Sgt Milner whom I work with. You might have noticed that he limps a bit at times. He became a policeman before the war, volunteered when hostilities began and was quite badly injured in Norway. When I met him, just after I was seconded to the police, he had just been discharged from hospital after having part of his left leg amputated. I've no idea why he doesn't wear the King's Badge – he's certainly entitled to do so and he_ _must_ _have received it!_

 _In any event I met his wife two or three times in 1940 and can't say that I cared for her – she struck me as being rather thoughtless and a cold fish. Then at the start of last year Milner began staying at work late every night – everyone noticed – and it turned out she'd left him (gone to live with relations in Wales). I wasn't really surprised to learn of it._

 _It seems that on Monday Mrs Milner returned to Hastings and told Milner she wanted to pick up the old threads. He wanted no part of this (_ _she_ _abandoned_ _him_ _, please remember), and apparently they had quite a loud quarrel about it in a public place. Then on Wednesday morning Mrs Milner was found murdered. She'd been beaten about the head with a brick – poor woman, she certainly didn't deserve that! Milner said that he was at home_ _by __himself_ _when she died. His office and house had to be searched, and at his house they found a shirt with blood on it, and it turned out to be Mrs Milner's blood. Obviously that was very bad, and Milner was suspended from duty. Everyone was_ _very_ _unhappy – Mr Foyle was quite annoyed with me when I asked him what he thought about the case (which it probably wasn't my place to do), which looks as though he was upset as well although he's not one to say so._

 _Milner hadn't done_ _anything_ _wrong, of course. What actually happened was this: Do you recall that when you were here visiting last month I said that it would be best_ _not_ _to visit a restaurant called The Captain's Table? It was being investigated for illegal trading. On Monday the Hastings Police raided it, seized a_ _great __deal_ _of black-market food and arrested the manager. I didn't drive Mr Foyle there because he and Milner took several constables with them, so I didn't see what happened, but it seems that Milner went into the restaurant's kitchen and found the constables_ _eating_ _some of the evidence! There was one in particular, a fellow called Peters – I always felt sure that it would be best to steer clear of him! Apparently Milner gave him an official reprimand which he didn't accept with much grace, and in the end it turned out that_ _he_ _had somehow got hold of Milner's shirt and smeared Mrs Milner's blood on it! Can you imagine anyone doing such a dreadful thing? In any event he's been arrested for evidence tampering amongst other things._

 _Mrs Milner was actually killed by a man called Harry Osborne who was planning to rob a bank. (Southern Bank, in fact, where I opened a savings account when I arrived in Hastings in 1939. He's been arrested as well, please rest assured.) He had a girlfriend called Grace Phillips – she and Mrs Milner used to work together at a hairdresser's shop and were close friends. (That was the_ _Evening __Telegram_ _'s error: they said that Mrs Milner was a nurse, which she_ _wasn't._ _) To cut a long story short, Miss Phillips wrote to Mrs Milner about Osborne's plans, and when Mrs Milner returned to Hastings she found Osborne and, I suppose, threatened to tell the authorities. Miss Phillips herself was dead by then; she was killed on Monday morning in an explosion at a munitions works here where she'd taken a war job, but later the police learned that Osborne had given her poison, and she set off the explosion herself (accidentally of course) when she fell unconscious onto her work table. She was only twenty. (I feel_ _very_ _grateful to be doing some other form of war service.)_

 _As you can see we have had quite a_ _busy week here and Christmas has come as a great relief! One of the items removed from the restaurant was a whole turkey, ready to be stuffed, which Mr Foyle said would be needed as evidence. I felt from the start that this was a_ _dreadful_ _waste of food, especially at this time of year; and eventually Mr Foyle saw things that way as well and persuaded the local magistrate to release it. It became the_ _pièce __de __résistance_ _at a Christmas dinner that the W.V.S. put on for a group of children here. People keep calling them evacuees, but of course they're not that – their fathers are all on active service and their mothers can't care for them, in some cases because they've died, and the children are all living with relations here in Hastings. They ought to have been evacuated themselves, I suppose, but slipped through the cracks somehow. At any rate the turkey was_ _quite_ _delicious and it was a fine party, which I'm able to tell you because they asked me to be their guest!_

 _That was at midday. In the morning I went to Festival Service at St Edward's, which I quite enjoyed. (The choir sang 'In the Bleak Midwinter,' Dad will be pleased to hear!) Later Andrew called for me and I had tea and supper at his and his father's house, which was arranged a few weeks ago. Andrew says that Christmas hasn't been Mr Foyle's strong point since Mrs Foyle died, but I think that he must have exerted himself and we had a fine time. Someone gave him a rabbit and we ate that, and Andrew made a carrot flan, and I showed Mr Foyle how to cook turnip tops! Then after supper we sat about for a time telling stories and then Andrew saw me back to my billet. After the past few days it was awfully nice to have_ _two_ _good chats with him! He gave me a dictionary for Christmas, which is something I'd been wanting, and I gave him a beautiful scarf. (And you'll never guess where I found it – at a jumble sale!)_

 _Andrew and Mr Foyle both asked to be remembered to you. It now seems to be definite that Andrew will have leave during the third week in February. Would it be convenient for us to pay you a few days' visit then?_

 _Miss Sylvia Victoria Woods, daughter of my friends Anne and Greville Woods, made her début on Christmas Eve, with my friend Felicity Prothero doing the honours! This morning I went to be introduced to her. She is quite wonderful, mother and child are doing well, father also, and they have asked me to stand godmother! The christening is in just a fortnight's time – Sylvia is perfectly healthy, but Greville's family live in Buckinghamshire and they are concerned that the travel ban may be put back into place soon. Later there was an open house at the A.T.S. officers' quarters, where my friend Glenda Lyle lives, and now here I am at home writing to you. It's very quiet here: Felicity is on call, Penny is on duty, Helen has gone to a party that the Americans are giving at their aerodrome and Mrs Hardcastle is visiting a friend in St Leonards on Sea. (I forgot to mention that Mrs Hardcastle gave us a very nice Christmas Eve supper which we all enjoyed together. As it turns out she was a cook in the W.R.N.S. during the last war!) Andrew is on duty today as well, and I've just heard a group of training aircraft going by overhead at quite a low altitude, which is one of his specialities._

 _I must close this now, as there are other letters that I ought to write today. Thank you once again for your beautiful Christmas gift. Please write and tell me about Christmas in Lyminster, and please do let me know about February._

 _Your loving daughter,  
Samantha_

 _P.S.: Rereading what I've written here, I see that I've left out that at Mr Foyle's request I did attend Grace Phillips' funeral, which was on Tuesday afternoon. Harry Osborne was there, of course, and he made a great display of grief. However the point is that I'll most likely have to testify at his trial. Please don't worry about this – it actually won't be my first time in the witness box!_

* * *

 _In c/o Mrs Hardcastle, 25 Stonefield Rd, Hastings, E. Sussex  
Boxing Day 1942_

 _Dear Aunt Amy and Uncle Michael,_

 _I can't thank you enough for all of those lovely dried fruits! As they are so difficult to come by at present I'm sure that you won't mind that I have shared them out: I put most of the apples into the larder here and gave half of the pears to Mr Foyle, my boss, as a Christmas gift. (He would prefer the pears, I suspect – I don't think that he has much of a sweet tooth.) I do hope that your Christmas was every bit as jolly as the war will allow._

 _I actually have one other reason for writing to you today. There was an incident here this week that the evening paper in Brighton reported as soon as it happened (Wednesday), and then the local papers took it up, and their accounts were all a bit lurid as well as being not entirely accurate. It hasn't been on the wireless as far as I know, much less in_ _The __Times_ _, but it's quite possible that you'll read about it in the Winchester papers next week. I've just finished writing to Dad and Mother about it, since they may very well have read about it already in the_ _Littlehampton __Mirror_ _. However, I didn't tell them absolutely everything; and since you're likely to hear it about it from Dad I should like you to have a_ _complete_ _account._

 _When Aunt Amy was here in September I introduced the people I work with, including D/Sgt Paul Milner. At the beginning of the war he left the Police Department, joined up and was so badly wounded in Norway that most of his left leg had to be amputated. They gave him an artificial limb; for one reason or another he doesn't wear the King's Badge. At that time he was married to a girl called Jane, whom I met a few times and didn't like at all – quite beautiful, but very cold and spiteful, I thought. I suspect that it was all physical, at least on her side, and I'd wager that_ _she_ _couldn't cope with the loss of one of_ _his_ _limbs. At any rate early last year Milner told me she'd left him and gone to live with relations in Wales. I wasn't terribly surprised._

 _On Tuesday I noticed that Milner was a bit snappish, which got worse later in the day. It turned out that Mrs Milner had arrived back in Hastings late on Monday and insisted on seeing him (she made him buy her tea on Tuesday), and that she wanted to pick up the old threads. Milner wanted nothing to do with this plan, unsurprisingly, and apparently they had quite a row about it at the tearoom. I don't know if he told her this, but recently he's been walking out with another girl, called Edith Ashford. (I haven't told Mother and Dad this part.) In the folder labelled 'Small world, isn't it?' you may put that she was my nurse when I was in hospital during the summer (and also that she and Milner and Mrs Milner were all at school together). She's an_ _excellent_ _nurse. I haven't got to know her terribly well, although after I was discharged she did ask me to call her by her Christian name; she strikes me as being a bit of a pepperpot but I do have the feeling that she'd be an awfully good person to have on your side if trouble were to arise._

 _At any rate, as I said I didn't like Mrs Milner but_ _no __one_ _deserves what happened to her – she was found dead early the next morning, beaten about the head with a brick. Mr Foyle had to tell Milner about it himself, and then it emerged that Milner didn't have an alibi. I have to say that I wondered about this at the time – I thought perhaps he was with Edith all night, and I don't have to tell you of all people what would happen to her if something like that were to become public knowledge!_

 _Milner's office and house had to be searched, and at the house they found a shirt of his with blood on it, and it turned out to be the late Mrs Milner's blood. Mr Foyle had to suspend Milner from duty after that, of course. Needless to say everyone was quite upset, including Mr Foyle – he's not the sort who'd say so, but when I asked him a question about the case (which was overstepping the bounds, no doubt) he lost his temper a bit, and I do think that that's why._

 _The curious thing is that Mrs Milner's death turned out to be connected, in a way, to_ _two_ _other things that happened here this week – rather like something that would happen in a film, or perhaps even in a novel! The first thing was that on Monday morning there was an explosion at a munitions works here that killed a girl called Grace Phillips. At midday another lady who works there came to the station and asked Mr Foyle to look into the matter – I'm not sure whether she thought that it was sabotage or that the girl had been deliberately killed off somehow. And in fact the latter_ _is_ _what happened, even though the explosion itself was an accident._

 _In a nutshell:  
1\. Miss Phillips and Mrs Milner were old friends. They used to work together at a hairdresser's here (which was the mistake that the __Evening __Telegram_ _made, by the way – they said that Mrs Milner was a nurse, which_ _isn't_ _true – although it's rather an interesting mistake for them to have made, don't you agree?).  
2\. Miss Phillips had a boyfriend called Harry Osborne who was plotting to rob a bank. He wanted her to steal some explosives for him, and she fooled him into thinking that she had done that. (All she actually took was some glycerin.) She wrote to Mrs Milner in Wales, telling her what was going on.  
3\. Osborne decided that he needed to rid himself of Miss Phillips, so on Monday morning he gave her poison and sent her off to work. (They were living together, which is another thing that I didn't tell Mother and Dad.) Her job was to assemble bombs, and the explosion happened when she fainted onto her work table.  
4\. When Mrs Milner returned to Hastings she brought the letter from Miss Phillips with her and on Wednesday night she apparently went to see Osborne at the garage where he worked. I don't know if she threatened to tell the police – that would have been a bit odd in the circumstances, don't you think? Perhaps she tried to blackmail him! At any rate when she left he followed her, and __he_ _killed her.  
5\. The other thing that happened on Monday was that the police raided a restaurant that they'd been investigating for illegal trading. I didn't go along because Mr Foyle and Milner took some constables with them, but after they came back I found out that Milner discovered some of the constables in the kitchen eating cooked chicken legs – one of them in particular, PC Peters, who I might add was always a bit too forward for my liking. Milner gave him gave him an official reprimand, and on Wednesday Peters took a shirt from Milner's house and got the late Mrs Milner's blood onto it! He's been charged with perverting the course of justice, amongst other things._

 _We shall need a rather large nutshell for all of that!_

 _On top of it all, while we were waiting for things to sort themselves out on Thursday I learned that Peters had been spreading rumours amongst the constables that I'm Mr Foyle's fancy woman (which is how a Land Army girl I crossed paths with_ _last __year_ _put it)! I haven't told_ _anyone_ _of this and wasn't planning to tell even you, but now I've written it anyway. It seems that this is how people think – look what I imagined about Milner and Edith! (Apparently I was quite wrong about that, though – when it was all over I heard her telling him that she would have stood by him no matter what he'd done, so obviously they couldn't have been together when Mrs Milner was attacked.)_

 _One more bit of this that I haven't told Dad and Mother is that I'm the one who finally located Osborne, and it was a bit of a close call. Grace Phillips' funeral was on Tuesday afternoon and after we visited the works Mr Foyle asked me to attend and see what I could learn. Osborne was there, of course – he put on a sort of grand pantomime show of mourning. On Thursday Mr Foyle needed to make a return visit and while I was driving him there the car's radiator split. He walked the rest of the way; I took the car to the first garage I could find and the mechanic on duty turned out to be Osborne. He said they didn't have any space. A police vehicle is meant to take priority and I reminded him of that. He asked me whether I was a police officer. I said yes, which of course I ought not to have done, and only partly because it isn't true._

 _Just then I recognised him from the funeral and offered my condolences, which was another thing that I oughtn't to have done! He wanted to know why I was at the funeral, which was a bit awkward. That's when things started to become slightly unsettling. He accused me of spying on him and tried to prevent me leaving. (It was obvious by this time that he wasn't going to fix the car, so I thought that I'd better try elsewhere.) Please rest assured that I got away_ _quite_ _easily, just a matter of some hot coals and a scoop, but Osborne did kill another man, his accomplice, who came in just then and started shouting at him to let me go._

 _Osborne did attempt the bank robbery on that very day and was arrested. He seems to be an utter lunatic who imagines being the sort of character James Cagney plays in films. I'll likely have to testify at his trial, but I don't mind that. It won't be my first time, although it will be the first time that I've testified for the prosecution!_

 _I had a really lovely Christmas: the service in the morning made me feel_ _much_ _better (I was_ _completely __unharmed_ _but I'm afraid I was a bit irritable with my landlady when she asked me about the case on Christmas Eve), the turkey was eaten at a dinner for some local children that I was invited to attend, and then I went to visit Mr Foyle and Andrew for tea and supper. The only unpleasant bit was that Andrew was rather upset by my misadventure – on Christmas morning he'd seen Thursday's_ _Evening __Telegram_ _. I wasn't mentioned, thank Heaven (and Mr Foyle, most likely!), but I did let the cat out of the bag about the car needing to be fixed, and of course Andrew put two and two together straight away after that._

Sam looks up from her letter as the telephone rings.

* * *

'Hardcastle residence.'

'Sam?'

'Oh, darling, hello! How are you?'

'Perfectly fine. Did you hear the trainees? They flew all 'round the West Hill.'

'I _did_ hear them! Did they do well?'

'They did, in fact. This is a fairly promising group, I have to say.'

'Good! I'm glad!'

'Sam, look – I was a bit of an idiot last night – _more_ than a bit, really. It's only that I learn of deaths in action all the time – you know as well as anyone how many of the chaps in my old squadron... I've outlived, and some of the men I've instructed are dead as well. But it's one thing when it's someone you know and another thing entirely when it's someone you love. When you told me about that poor girl in the bomb works all I could think of was how glad I was that _you're_ not doing that job,' Andrew goes on. 'And then to know that it _might_ have been you regardless -' He breaks off suddenly. 'I lost my head, and I'm sorry.'

'Please _don't_ be – you weren't an idiot at _all,_ and you didn't do _anything_ that I'd call losing your head! _I_ ought to apologise, really.'

'Good heavens, Sam, what on Earth for?'

'When I said that I don't want to be wrapped in cotton wool – I _don't,_ Andrew – but my parents worry about me _differently_ than you do, and when _they_ say that they're proud of me I do believe them, but they _don't_ mean the same thing that _you_ do when _you_ say it. I'm not explaining this very well, I'm afraid.'

'You're explaining it brilliantly,' Andrew says softly. 'I do love you _so_ much, Sam – and _not_ in the way they do.'

* * *

 _I'm the only person in the house this afternoon so I had to break off writing this when the telephone rang just now. It was Andrew, and we're perfectly all right. He really is so tremendously kind, I am so awfully grateful that he and I are together, and as we would never have met had I not joined the M.T.C. and it was your idea that I ought to do that I have you to thank. I'm not as far from harm's way as Dad and Mother believed that I would be when I joined up (as I was reminded this week), and sometimes it's a bit frightening, or perhaps I frighten myself, but it's worth it to feel what I do for Andrew and to know what he feels for me. Andrew wants us to go to Lyminster when he has leave in February. I do hope that I shall be able to bring him to visit_ _you_ _as well in not too long a time._

 _Please remember me to everyone there and give them all my very best._

 _Love,  
Sam_

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER – Monday 28th DECEMBER 1942

'I see,' Sam says into the telephone. 'No, of course not. I understand completely. We're all in the same boat ... yes, or the same _car,_ if you like,' she goes on, which makes Brookie roll his eyes. 'Yes, I'm aware of that as well – no staff, of course ... _Oh!_ Well, yes, in fact I _was_ the one, since you ask ... No, I - ... I'm really _quite_ all right. _Thank you_ for your concern, but there's no harm done. Shall I telephone you, then, on, let me see, the eleventh, or ought _we_ to wait to hear from _you?_ ... I see. Yes, I suppose that would be best. Very well, then. Thank you again. Good-bye!'

 _Hell!_ she begins to say as she rings off, but stops herself – _It really_ won't _do to gain a reputation as the sort of girl who uses_ that _sort of language,_ she thinks.

'Drat!' she exclaims instead.

'What seems to be the problem?' Mr Foyle asks.

'That was Mr Johnson, sir,' Sam tells him. 'It seems that the fourteen-sixty's radiator is in _much_ worse condition than we thought – we're really _quite_ lucky that it didn't simply _explode!'_

'Can he fix it?'

' _No,_ it seems that in fact he _can't._ He's having to send to the Wolseley works for a new one – that's in Birmingham.'

'I thought they'd gone over to munitions, the same as all the rest,' Milner puts in.

Milner looks better than he has since before the raid on The Captain's Table, Sam notes. Last week's tensions are gone from his face.

'They have, but as this is a police vehicle they'll be obliged to make an exception for us,' she explains. 'But they'll also have to build a sort of _bespoke_ radiator and send it to Mr Johnson to install. He expects it'll be at _least_ a fortnight – possibly as long as three weeks.'

'Well. Have to make do,' Mr Foyle says. 'All right, Sam – pick one of the ten-forties, whichever one you prefer, and that'll be the one that you drive until we get our regular car back. Tell Brooke which one you've chosen. Then bring it 'round the front – we need to pay a call.'

'Of course – ready in five minutes, sir!'

* * *

'Where to, sir?'

Foyle doesn't reply at once, to Sam's surprise. Milner – looking slightly less content now, after folding himself into the ten-forty's cramped rear seat – speaks next.

'It _is_ a bit of a problem, sir,' he observes. 'Even the large car isn't completely inconspicuous – this one's actually _marked.'_

'Are we going to do... reconnaissance, then?' Sam asks.

Foyle resists an impulse to reply that _**we**_ are not going to do anything at all.

'Yes,' he says, 'and you make a good point, Milner.'

'Why don't I drive to _near_ where you need to go – a street or two away, perhaps,' Sam suggests, 'and leave the car there while you have a look 'round?'

'Might be worth a try,' Foyle allows.

'I'll stay out of sight,' she adds.

This is so completely unlike Sam that Foyle turns and looks at her silently. Last week's close call – and Andrew's reaction to it, perhaps – must have had an effect upon her.

'The uniform might give the game away a bit,' she explains.

'Ah. Right, then. The address we need is number 69, Queen's Road. Fairly close to your billet, isn't that right?'

'Yes, it is, sir – isn't that Mr. Hanley, the butcher?'

'Exactly.'

'Golly! He isn't a black-marketeer, is he? _All_ of us who live at Mrs Hardcastle's are registered there! She'll be absolutely _livid!'_

'Well, we don't _know_ one way or the _other,'_ Foyle cautions. 'There've been two reports of _possible,_ um, irregular transactions.'

'Sir,' Sam begins suddenly, 'what if I were to leave the car in Stonefield Road, where I live, and go home for a moment and change my clothes and fetch my ration book, and go in there myself? Mr Hanley _might_ know who I am,' she goes on, 'but I'm almost certain that he doesn't know what I _do.'_

'I thought you said that your landlady does the shopping for all of you,' Milner interjects.

'She does as a general rule – but I could buy my bacon ration for the week and say that I'm cooking supper for everyone tonight and I need it for that. Mr Hanley's been running the place on his own, as I understand it – both of his sons are in the Army now and his wife's an invalid – so there's _bound_ to be a queue and once I got into the shop I'd have a chance to _observe.'_

There is silence in the ten-forty for a few seconds. Sam turns the car into Upper Park Road.

'Very kind of you to volunteer, Sam,' Foyle says at last. 'I'll keep the offer in mind.'

 _FINIS_

* * *

 **Author's note:  
** Beginning on June 20th, 1940, and continuing on and off until August 25th, 1944, large portions of Great Britain's southern and eastern coasts, along with adjacent areas up to anywhere from 10 to 20 miles inland, were placed under a travel ban. If you lived outside that zone you weren't permitted to travel across the invisible line unless you were on official business. The ban was typically lifted for the Christmas season and not reinstated until after Easter; but because changes were made on very short notice, Greville's parents would undoubtedly have wanted to be on the safe side by visiting as soon as possible.


End file.
